WITTE  ARRIVES 


MASHA  AND  HER  CHILDREN  WERE  ADMITTED  TO  AMERICA 


WITTE  ARRIVES 

A  NOVEL 

BY 

ELIAS  TOBENKIN 

WITH  A  FRONTISPIECE  BY  J.  HENRY 


'Was  I  not  made  the  man  I  am 
By  Omnipotent  time? ' ' 

Goethe's  Prometheus 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  2926,  by 
THE  NEW  YORK  HERALD  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1916,  by 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  oj  translation  into 
foreign  languages 


TO 
RAE  SCHWID  TOBENKIN 


«r*    «  <->  f  F*  £"* 

343156 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    IN  A  STRANGE  LAND .     .     •       i 

II     TAKING  ROOT 19 

III  THE  LONG  LOST  BROTHER 39 

IV  SIBERIAN  ECHOES 48 

V    CLARA    MARRIES 61 

VI    COLLEGE  DAYS 75 

VII    A    REPORTER 89 

VIII    CHICAGO 106 

IX    THE  ROAD  TO  NOWHERE 122 

X    THE  NEW  YEAR 134 

XI    A  DROWNING  WORLD  .     . 145 

XII  MARRIAGE    ..........   160 

XIII  THE  COVENANT      .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .173 

XIV  WAR  ON  THE  UNBORN   .     ...     .     .186 

XV    THE  NEW  KING 195 

XVI  LETTERS  —  AND  MORE  LETTERS  ....  209 

XVII  THE  END  OF  A  DREAM   .     .     .     .     .     .  222 

XVIII    THE  PROMISE 236 

XIX  HELEN    DIES    .     .     .     ......  242 

XX    GRAY    DAYS 255 

XXI    FATHER  AND  SON 268 

XXII    THE  BOOK  OF  LIFE 282 

XXIII  OLD  SORROWS  AND  A  NEW  LIFE  ....  293 


WITTE  ARRIVES 


WITTE  ARRIVES 


CHAPTER  I 

IN   A   STRANGE  LAND 

CASTLE  GARDEN,  the  mysterious  institution 
which  inspired  Masha  Witkowski  and  her  ship 
companions  With  so  much  dread,  passed  out  of  her 
horizon  unnoticed.  While  she  was  bracing  herself  for 
the  ordeal  at  the  hands  of  the  immigration  officials  — 
an  ordeal  concerning  which  her  husband  had  fore 
warned  her  and  carefully  prepared  her  in  his  letters  — 
a  young  man,  simply  uniformed,  came  up  to  where  she 
and  her  three  children  sat  huddled  together  beside  their 
bundles.  He  looked  at  the  card  which  was  pinned  to 
her  shawl  and  made  a  sign  for  her  to  follow  him.  In 
side  a  railing  another  man  examined  her  tickets  and 
addresses  and,  barely  moving  his  lips,  emitted  an  in 
distinct  sound.  Whereupon  the  first  man  led  them 
through  an  iron  gate  to  a  bench  in  the  waiting-room. 
Masha  Witkowski  and  her  three  children  had  been 
admitted  to  America,  and  they  were  not  aware  of  it. 


2  WITTE  ARRIVES 

The  family  had  hardly  finished  its  belated  noon  meal 
—  purchased  from  one  of  the  stands  in  the  waiting- 
room  —  when  a  man  again  came  up.  Mrs.  Witkow- 
ski,  who  in  the  progress  of  her  long  journey  from  the 
Russian  Pale  to  the  New  World  had  learned  to  have 
her  tickets  ever  ready  and  to  hand  them  in  response  to 
every  question  she  did  not  understand,  did  so  on  this 
occasion  too.  Her  instinct  had  not  deceived  her.  The 
man  looked  at  the  tickets  anc^  nodded  approvingly.  He 
then  pointed  to  their  bundles  and  made  motions  with 
his  arms  indicating  that  they  should  pick  them  up. 
When  his  orders  were  understood,  he  started  out  of 
the  building  with  Masha  and  her  children  following 
him  at  a  run. 

There  came  a  short  ride  on  a  ferry,  and  then  more 
waiting  in  a  big  room  which  the  immigrant  family  pre 
sumed  was  a  railway  station,  while  their  guide  was 
talking  through  a  grated  window  to  a  man  inside  and 
was  receiving  some  long  slips  of  paper  —  more  tickets, 
Masha  guessed.  Then  came  the  train  with  a  welcome 
surprise  —  a  conductor  who  greeted  them  in  Ger 
man. 

There  Was  a  difference  of  centuries  between  the 
German  which  the  American  conductor  spoke  and  the 
ghetto  Yiddish  of  Masha  Witkowski  and  her  children. 
Nevertheless  she  and  her  children  were  cheered  to  the 
marrow.  With  a  man  who  spoke  German  they  felt 
kinship.  Masha  even  took  it  as  a  good  omen.  She 


IN  A  STRANGE  LAND  3 

put  her  questions  in  the  most  cosmopolitan  Yiddish  she 
could  summon  to  her  command. 

One  of  her  first  questions  was  when  they  would  ar 
rive  in  Spring  Water.  The  conductor  could  not  make 
out  her  pronunciation  of  the  name  of  the  American 
town,  and  she  handed  him  a  slip  of  paper  with  her 
husband's  address.  The  trainman  consulted  a  time 
table  and  told  her  that  she  would  reach  her  destination 
at  nine  o'clock  Thursday  night. 

At  this  a  solemn  look  came  into  Masha's  face,  Her 
eyes  remained  hazy  for  some  minutes.  .  .  . 

So  then  this  Spring  Water,  which  for  four  years 
was  only  a  phrase  to  write  down  on  an  envelope  once 
a  week,  this  Spring  Water  was  a  real  place,  as  real  as 
the  little  town  she  had  left  behind  in  the  Russian  Pale. 
The  conductor  knew  of  it.  He  found  it  in  a  book. 
He  even  knew  the  hour  when  the  train  would  get  there, 
when  they  would  arrive  there  —  to  her  husband  —  to 
their  father. 

The  train  had  left  the  last  stretches  of  suburban 
panorama  and  was  sweeping  into  the  broad  open  coun 
try.  Her  children,  Harry  and  Emil,  aged  respectively 
sixteen  and  ten,  and  her  twelve-year-old  daughter, 
Clara,  their  heads  and  faces  protruding  slightly  out  of 
the  raised  window,  were  following  intently  the  shifting 
landscape  and  changing  scenes. 

Masha  looked  beyond  the  heads  of  her  children 
through  the  open  window,  but  with  unseeing  eyes. 


4  WITTE  ARRIVES 

Her  vision  and  thoughts  were  turned  inward.  .  .  . 
She  was  thinking  of  her  husband,  of  Aaron  Witkowski. 
Four  years  she  had  not  seen  him  —  four  of  the  best 
years.  She  was  only  thirty-six  when  he  left  for 
America.  At  first  it  seemed  as  if  she  would  never  be 
able  to  bear  being  away  from  him  that  long.  .  .  .  But 
time  proved  the  conqueror  —  it  tamed  her.  There 
were  innumerable  nights  that  were  long,  terribly  long, 
nights  when  it  seemed  that  the  dawn  would  never 
break,  that  day  would  never  come.  .  .  .  But  if  the 
nights,  and  frequently  even  the  days,  were  long,  the 
weeks  and  the  months  and  the  years  sped  on.  And 
now  the  terrible  years  of  separation,  of  passionate  long 
ing  and  unuttered  confidences  were  over.  Thursday 
night  she  would  see  him  —  Poor  Aaron,  how  he  must 
have  changed  in  these  years! 

A  tear  fell  from  her  eyes.  That  aroused  her.  Her 
children  must  not  see  her  cry  now  that  they  were  in 
America,  that  they  were  speeding  toward  him  and 
were  only  separated  from  their  father  by  the  trifling 
space  of  three  days'  travel. 

Her  children,  however,  had  not  noticed  her  dimmed 
eyes.  The  train  was  now  rolling  along  a  broad  stretch 
of  farming  country.  Every  thirty  seconds  a  home 
flashed  into  view,  a  neatly  painted  house  and  barn  and 
well  all  to  itself  —  an  American  farm  such  as  Aaron 
had  so  often  pictured  to  them  in  his  letters.  The  chil 
dren  drank  in  the  sight  without  comment  or  exclama- 


IN  A  STRANGE  LAND  5 

tion.  The  scenes  were  too  absorbing,  too  thrilling  for 
them  to  waste  the  least  energy  or  time  on  anything  but 
seeing. 

p  The  train  passed  within  half  a  hundred  feet  of  a 
big  load  of  hay  that  was  pulled  by  a  pair  of  fine 
gray  horses.  The  young  farmer  who  was  sitting  on 
top  of  the  load  removed  his  wide-brimmed  straw  hat 
and  smiled  and  nodded  to  the  children.  All  three  of 
them  were  so  astonished  by  this  unexpected  greeting 
from  a  man  they  had  never  seen  before,  from  an 
American,  that  for  some  moments  they  were  unable 
to  return  the  greeting.  Clara  was  the  first  to  come  to 
herself,  and,  protruding  her  head  and  chest  far  out  of 
the  window,  she  waved  her  handkerchief  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  wagon  which  the  speeding  train  was  fast 
leaving  behind. 

"Are  not  they  splendid,  these  Americans?"  Clara 
said,  addressing  her  brothers.  Harry  wanted  to  say 
something  in  reply,  but  there  was  a  lump  in  his  throat, 
so  touched  was  he  by  the  kindly  greeting  of  the 
stranger.  Emil  had  not  made  the  slightest  stir  from 
his  position  at  the  window  and  was  still  looking  at  the 
load  of  hay,  which  had  by  now  grown  exceedingly 
small.  The  man  on  top  of  the  wagon  now  looked  like 
a  little  boy  no  bigger  than  himself. 

In  after  years  the  two  brothers  and  the  sister  often 
recalled  the  smile  and  greeting  of  the  young  farmer  on 
the  hay  wagon  —  the  first  greeting  they  had  received 


6  WITTE  ARRIVES 

from  a  stranger,  and  a  Gentile  —  their  first  American 
smile. 

Evening  was  falling,  a  mild  August  evening.  The 
soft  breeze  that  beat  against  their  faces  was  delight 
fully  soothing.  None  of  the  children  spoke.  They 
listened.  The  wind  seemed  to  be  making  music.  The 
rapid,  even  strides  which  the  train  was  taking  through 
space  fell  in  rhythmic  waves.  Little  Emil  moved  away 
from  the  window,  sank  back  in  the  seat  and  closed  his 
eyes.  He  had  a  vague  consciousness  of  having  lived 
through  such  sensations,  of  having  heard  that  music 
before,  but  he  could  not  recall  where.  .  .  .When  he 
opened  his  eyes  again  it  was  dark.  Night  had  settled 
upon  everything.  After  a  while  the  train  cut  through 
a  small  village.  The  houses  of  the  village  were  inter 
woven  with  trees  and  the  streets  were  studded  with 
lights.  It  was  the  first  time  the  immigrant  family  saw 
such  a  profusion  of  lights  in  streets,  and  it  provoked 
comment. 

With  such  a  delightful  wind  blowing  in  their  faces 
it  seemed  to  the  children  that  they  would  never  fall 
asleep.  Soon,  however,  the  breeze,  which  had  been  so 
refreshing  and  invigorating  at  first,  began  to  exhaust 
them.  The  weariness  seemed  to  grow  momentarily. 
The  windows  were  lowered.  The  bundles  were  ar 
ranged  into  pillows.  The  tired  limbs  were  twisted  into 
half-sitting,  half -reclining  positions,  and  the  brothers 


IN  A  STRANGE  LAND  7 

and  the  sister  were  soon  asleep  under  the  watchful  eye 
of  their  mother,  who  was  leaning  back  in  the  seat  still 
thinking  her  own  thoughts. 

In  Chicago  the  immigrant  train  disbanded.  Mrs. 
Witkowski  and  her  children  were  lined  up  on  the  plat 
form  along  with  other  aliens  like  themselves.  Men 
were  running  up  and  down  in  front  of  these  lines  of 
foreigners,  and  simple  but  touching  reunions  took  place. 
Here  a  man  recognized  his  wife  and  children.  There 
a  son  recognized  his  old  father,  a  brother  recognized  a 
sister.  Masha  and  her  children  were  nlaced  in  a  car 
riage,  and  there  followed  a  brief  joumey  over  strange- 
looking  city  streets  that  were  filled  with  people,  despite 
the  fact  that  the  night  was  already  advanced.  The 
driver  turned  the  immigrant  family  over  to  a  police 
man,  who  took  them  into  what  they  again  recognized 
as  a  railway  waiting-room. 

"  Sprechen  Sie  Deitsch?"  Masha  tried  her  luck,  as 
she  had  often  done  during  the  journey.  But  the  red- 
haired  policeman  shook  his  head,  "  no  Dutch,"  and  pro 
ceeded  to  make  signs  to  the  woman  and  the  children 
to  take  possession  of  the  benches.  They  had  a  long 
wait  ahead  of  them. 

Masha  sat  up  the  greater  part  of  the  night  watching 
over  her  children  who  lay  sound  asleep  on  the  benches. 
She  was  afraid  to  go  to  sleep  lest  she  miss  her  train, 
or  something  befall  them.  Toward  morning,  however, 
her  power  of  resistance  waned.  She  leaned  against 


8  WITTE  ARRIVES 

the  arm  of  a  bench  and  in  a  few  minutes  was  sound 
asleep. 

The  morning  was  well  advanced  when  she  awoke. 
She  looked  about.  Her  children  were  nowhere  to  be 
seen.  Alarmed  she  rushed  out  into  the  next  room. 
Here  she  found  them  lined  up  against  the  window  and 
looking  out  into  the  street.  She  intended  to  upbraid 
them  for  having  scared  her  so,  but  reproach  died  on 
her  lips  when  she  beheld  the  fascinating  sight  the  open 
window  afforded. 

As  far  as  her  eye  could  see  stretched  giant  buildings. 
The  street  below  was  seething  with  people  who  were 
going  to  work.  But  to  her  it  seemed  as  if  all  these 
men  and  women  were  out  for  a  holiday  jaunt.  They 
were  all  dressed  in  such  fine  clothes.  The  women  all 
wore  hats.  How  different  all  this  was  from  the  gray, 
drab  existence  at  home,  in  Russia.  There  was  not  a 
single  barefooted  peasant  in  the  entire  street.  .  .  . 
Even  the  horses  and  wagons  had  an  air  of  aristocracy 
about  them.  The  wagons  were  painted.  The  brass 
buckles  of  the  horses'  harness  sparkled  in  the  sunshine. 
The  drivers  on  these  wagons  seemed  care- free,  com 
placent,  so  different  from  the  peasant  Ivan,  who  used 
to  drive  her  to  the  fair  in  a  neighboring  village  for 
half  a  ruble,  and  who  made  a  meal  on  a  piece  of  black 
bread  and  an  onion.  Mrs.  Witkowski  now  began  to 
understand  what  her  husband  had  meant  by  the  words 
"  dignity  of  labor  " —  words  which  he  had  so  often 


IN  A  STRANGE  LAND  9 

used  in  his  letters  in  which  he  tried  to  initiate  her  into 
the  American  view  of  life. 

A  policeman  took  Mrs.  Witkowski  to  a  restaurant 
across  the  street  from  the  station  and  supervised  her 
purchase  of  coffee  and  rolls.  When  the  meal  was 
finished,  the  officer  again  went  over  to  Masha.  He  ex 
amined  her  tickets  and  pointed  to  the  figure  twelve  on 
his  watch.  She  guessed  that  he  meant  that  their  train 
would  leave  at  noon.  Though  she  still  had  a  three 
hours'  wait  before  her,  Mrs.  Witkowski  gathered  her 
children  and  imparted  the  news  to  them,  and  they  be 
gan  making  ready  for  this  last  lap  of  their  five  weeks' 
journey. 

They  washed  and  combed  with  an  air  of  deliberation, 
as  if  they  were  performing  a  religious  rite.  The  chil 
dren  brushed  their  old-world  clothes,  tried  to  smooth 
out  the  wrinkles  and  creases  in  them.  As  they  worked 
away  with  brush  and  towel  the  color  mounted  to  their 
cheeks  and  their  hearts  began  to  beat  faster.  It  was 
not  make-believe  this  time.  It  was  real.  In  a  few 
hours  they  would  see  their  father  —  they  would  all  be 
reunited  for  always  —  always  —  always.  .  .  . 

Chicago  lay  miles  to  the  rear.  The  train  was  speed 
ing  through  beautiful  country.  The  farmhouses  here 
were  even  more  attractive,  larger,  richer  than  those 
they  had  seen  on  the  first  afternoon  of  their  journey 
from  Castle  Garden  to  Spring  Water.  But  none  of 
these  things  interested  Mrs.  Witkowski's  children. 


10  WITTE  ARRIVES 

The  landscape,  the  farmhouses  that  dashed  past  their 
eyes  seemed  more  like  a  dream  to  them.  What  was 
real  was  the  approaching  meeting  with  their  father. 
None  of  them  talked,  each  preferring  to  be  left  alone 
with  his  or  her  own  thoughts  and  reminiscences. 

The  ten-year-old  Emil,  his  head  resting  against  the 
plush  back  of  the  seat  and  his  eyes  closed,  was  dream 
ing  of  his  father.  He  was  visualizing  him  not  as  he 
expected  to  see  him  in  a  few  hours,  but  as  he  knew  him 
on  that  night,  the  night  when  he,  his  father,  the  big 
man  with  the  big  beard  and  imposing  appearance,  wept. 
.  .  .  That  night  and  his  father's  tears  were  a  secret  of 
Emil's,  a  secret  of  which  he  was  proud  and  which  made 
him  feel  so  much  older  than  he  was.  It  was  his  father's 
farewell  night.  .  .  . 

That  evening,  Emil  recalled,  their  house  was  filled 
with  people.  Everybody  in  the  village  came  to  bid 
Aaron  Witkowski  farewell.  The  aged  rabbi  himself 
sought  out  their  humble  cottage.  The  rabbi  sat  across 
the  table  from  his  father.  For  some  time  the  two 
talked  about  the  Torah,  the  law  and  Judaism.  Then 
the  white-haired  patriarch  rose,  lifted  his  hands,  placed 
them  on  Aaron's  head  and  prayed.  The  two  kissed, 
and  mumbling  a  blessing  the  rabbi  walked  out  of  the 
house  leaning  heavily  on  his  staff. 

Emil  had  fallen  asleep  long  before  the  last  group 
of  well-wishers  had  left  the  house.  He  was  awakened 
by  the  pressing  of  something  warm  against  his  face. 


IN  A  STRANGE  LAND  11 

His  father's  lips  were  resting  against  his  forehead. 
Aaron  was  murmuring  Emil's  name  and  was  weeping. 
Emil  longed  to  put  his  arms  about  his  father's  neck  and 
tell  him  how  he  would  miss  him,  how  he  would  think 
of  him  every  moment  until  the  day  they  were  reunited. 
He  felt  the  tears  rising  in  his  own  throat,  but  he  was 
struck  with  awe  at  the  hot  tears  which  were  rolling 
from  his  father's  eyes.  Never  had  he  known  his  father 
to  weep  before.  So  he  moved  away,  pulled  the  quilt 
over  his  head  and  was  soon  asleep.  .  .  . 

In  the  morning,  when  the  peasant  cart  stood  before 
the  house  and  Aaron  had  taken  leave  of  every  one,  he 
turned  once  more  to  his  six-year-old  son.  He  slid  his 
fingers  through  Emil's  hair,  smoothed  his  forehead 
with  his  hands  and  began  to  talk  hastily,  brokenly.  He 
wanted  Emil  to  obey  his  mother  and  to  learn  well. 
When  they  came  together  again  he  would  question  him 
on  everything  he  had  studied,  he  would  want  to  see 
what  progress  his  son  had  made.  He  must  be  a  nice 
boy,  never  associate  with  the  rough  boys,  never  fight. 
He  must  study  hard  —  accomplish.  .  .  . 

The  ten-year-old  Emil  recalled  all  of  these  things 
now.  But  he  dwelt  most  on  his  father's  tears.  There 
was  a  vague  pride  stirring  through  his  little  breast. 
He  felt  as  if  by  those  tears  he  had  been  taken  by  his 
father  into  confidence.  He  was  eager  to  see  him,  eager 
to  tell  his  father  how  he  had  carried  out  his  wishes. 

There  was  a  change  of  trains  at  six-thirty.     A  gray- 


12  WITTE  ARRIVES 

headed  conductor  helped  them  with  their  bags  and  par 
cels  into  a  waiting  train.  He  smiled  every  time  he 
passed  them.  When  he  took  the  tickets  from  Mrs. 
Witkowski,  or  rather  the  three  stubs  which  she  held 
out  to  him,  he  observed  them  for  some  moments, 
punched  them  slowly  and  put  them  in  his  pocket. 
Masha  made  a  motion  as  if  to  ask  him  for  a  receipt. 
But  the  conductor  shook  his  head  good-naturedly.  A 
wave  of  excitement  overcame  Mrs.  Witkowski  and  her 
children,  especially  Clara.  All  through  the  journey  the 
girl  had  kept  watch  over  her  mother  to  see  that  she  did 
not  lose  any  of  the  tickets  and  papers  which  she  had  re 
ceived  from  the  various  ship  and  railroad  agents. 
Now  the  last  scraps  of  these  once  long  and  imposing- 
looking  tickets  were  gone.  That  signified  to  them 
more  than  words  could  express  that  they  were  really 
at  the  end  of  their  long  and  weary  journey. 

It  grew  dark.  Every  eight  or  ten  minutes  the  train 
stopped,  and  a  passenger  got  off  or  on.  The  railway 
stations  here  were  small,  and  they  all  looked  as  if  they 
had  been  cast  from  the  same  mold.  Did  Spring  Water, 
too,  have  such  a  station?  Did  it,  too,  have  so  many 
lights  in  the  streets  at  night?  It  would  soon  be  nine 
o'clock.  They  would  soon  be  there.  They  would  see. 
How  soon?  They  were  becoming  a  little  tired  from 
the  overstrain  of  excited  watching  —  broken  up. 
They  would  settle  down  for  a  little  rest.  It  must  be 
a  whole  hour  yet  till  nine  o'clock. 


IN  A  STRANGE  LAND  13 

Just  as  they  settled  down  for  a  rest  the  conductor 
came  in.  He  pointed  to  their  parcels  and  said  some 
thing.  They  all  jumped  up,  seized  their  bundles  and 
started  to  go.  He  smiled  and  waved  to  them  to  settle 
down  again.  They  sank  back  into  their  seats,  dis 
appointed. 

Harry,  who  had  his  head  out  of  the  window,  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  edge  of  a  city.  The  electric  lights 
were  blazing  by  the  thousands.  He  communicated  his 
find.  They  waited.  After  a  lapse  of  a  minute  and  a 
half  —  which  to  them  seemed  a  long,  a  terribly  long 
time  —  the  conductor  came  in  once  more.  He  again 
pointed  to  their  parcels.  They  picked  them  up  and 
held  them  under  their  arms.  He  smiled  approvingly. 
The  train  was  slowing  up.  They  began  moving  toward 
the  front  of  the  car.  The  railway  platform  now  came 
in  full  view.  Clara  stood  hard  by  the  open  window. 

"  Father,  father,"  she  cried  wildly  and  burst  toward 
the  door.  The  few  passengers,  who  had  been  dozing 
in  their  seats,  sprang  to  their  feet.  When  they  caught 
sight  of  the  little  group  of  stampeding  aliens,  their 
alarm  vanished,  and  a  kindly,  understanding  look  came 
into  their  eyes.  They  shifted  over  to  the  side  of  the 
car  nearer  the  platform,  raised  the  windows,  and 
watched  the  reunion  of  the  alien  family  with  curious 
feelings.  They  knew  that  they  would  never  forget 
the  pathetic  little  scene  to  which  they  were  accidental 
witnesses. 


H  WITTE  ARRIVES 

There  were  three  Russian  Jewish  families  in  Spring 
Water  at  that  time —  1890  —  and  they  were  all  at  the 
Witte  home  that  evening.  Witkowski  had  changed 
his  name  to  Witte  soon  after  his  arrival  in  America. 
Two  of  the  families  had  known  the  Wittes  in  Europe. 
They  had  come  from  the  same  town.  There  was  no 
end  of  questions  about  friends,  acquaintances,  distant 
relatives.  It  was  after  midnight  when  the  visitors 
left,  taking  Harry  and  Clara  with  them  for  the  night, 
for  the  Witte  household  was  not  yet  in  order.  Emil, 
his  father  would  not  let  from  under  his  roof.  He  did 
not  take  his  eyes  from  him  all  evening.  How  he  had 
grown  —  what  a  little  man  he  had  become !  He  petted 
and  caressed  him,  tried  to  smooth  out  the  wrinkles  on 
the  child's  forehead,  and  suppressed  a  sigh  that  a  child 
should  have  wrinkles.  Poor  child  of  the  Russian 
Pale! 

But  Masha  put  an  end  to  his  musings.  It  was  time 
for  Emil  to  go  to  sleep.  They  took  him  to  a  room 
adjoining  their  own  bedroom,  tucked  him  up  in  a  nice 
new  quilt  and  walked  out  with  a  smile.  They  did  not 
kiss  him  good  night.  He  seemed  to  them  a  little  too 
big  for  such  a  demonstrative  manifestation  of  tender 
ness. 

As  soon  as  all  footsteps  and  noise  had  died  out  in 
the  house,  Emil  slipped  off  the  bed  and  stole  on  tiptoe 
to  the  window.  The  street  was  totally  dark  now,  but 
above  the  moon  was  shining.  He  saw  the  outlines  of 


IN  A  STRANGE  LAND  15 

the  houses  distinctly  in  the  moonlight.  They  all  looked 
strange  and  new,  so  much  grander  than  the  thatched 
cottages  in  their  native  village,  but  they  were  so 
strange,  so  cold.  And  in  these  houses  lived  people  who 
were  strangers  to  him,  whose  language  he  did  not  un 
derstand,  and  who  did  not  understand  his.  A  painful, 
tender  longing  for  his  town,  for  his  street,  for  his 
home,  for  his  synagogue  in  Russia  swept  over  him. 
He  sank  down  on  the  floor  beside  the  window  and,  put 
ting  his  head  down  on  the  sill,  cried  softly  but  steadily 
for  a  long  time.  Then  he  crawled  into  bed  again  and 
fell  asleep. 

His  father's  hand  playing  with  his  hair  awakened 
him.  At  the  foot  of  the  bed  lay  a  new  suit  of  clothes 
and  fresh  underclothes  —  the  latter  articles  he  had 
never  worn  in  the  Russian  Pale.  Beside  the  bed  stood 
a  new  pair  of  shoes.  While  his  father  was  helping  him 
dress  in  these  unaccustomed  clothes,  Emil  was  giving 
account  of  himself,  the  account  he  had  waited  four 
years  to  give.  He  was  telling  his  father  what  he  had 
learned  in  those  years.  Yes,  he  was  through  with  three 
volumes  of  the  Talmud,  and  in  the  last  six  months  the 
rabbi  had  taught  him  the  law.  Aaron  pricked  up  his 
ears. 

"You  studied  the  law?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Emil  eagerly.  "  The  rabbi  thought  I 
might  not  have  an  opportunity  to  continue  my  Hebrew 
studies  in  America,  so  he  wanted  me  to  know  a  little 


16  WITTE  ARRIVES 

about  the  laws  of  the  Jews,  even  if  I  was  somewhat 
too  young  to  study  the  Shulkhan  Orukh." 

"  And  what  did  you  study  in  the  Shulkhan  Orukh, 
what  laws  ?  "  the  father  asked,  gazing  at  the  child  with 
suppressed  amazement. 

Emil  recited  a  long  list  of  dietary  laws,  laws  about 
the  keeping  of  the  Sabbath  and  the  principal  holidays ; 
the  laws  relating  to  the  Passover  and  the  Day  of  Atone 
ment. 

"  It  is  good,  it  is  good,"  Aaron  said  and  stroked  his 
son's  cheek.  Observing  Emil  dressed  and  ready  to  go 
downstairs,  he  moved  toward  the  window,  the  child  fol 
lowing  him.  He  gazed  intently  for  some  moments  at 
his  little  son,  as  if  he  were  searching  for  something  in 
his  face,  his  eyes,  and  then  started  to  speak  hurriedly, 
almost  confusedly. 

"  You  will  go  to  school  here,"  Aaron  began,  and  his 
ten-year-old  son  who  was  already  versed  in  the  Law  of 
Israel  hung  upon  every  word  his  parent  uttered. 
"  You  will  go  to  school  here.  But  it  will  be  a  different 
sort  of  a  school  from  the  one  you  went  to  in  Russia. 
Different  studies,  worldly  studies.  .  .  .  You  see  it  is  a 
different  land  we  are  in  now,  a  better  country  —  the 
best  country  on  earth.  It  is  not  only  overflowing  with 
milk  and  honey,  but  with  opportunities.  Here  there 
is  no  distinction  between  Jew  and  Gentile.  ...  If  you 
study  hard  you  can  make  anything  you  want  of  your- 


IN  A  STRANGE  LAND  17 

self.  .  .  .  You  can  become  a  judge,  a  lawyer,  a  teacher 
—  anything.  This  is  a  free  land.  The  people  are  free 
and  all  are  equal.  All  roads  are  free  to  every  one.  .  .  . 
Jews  have  the  same  rights  as  all  other  people.  .  .  .  No 
differences,  no  distinctions.  .  .  .  They  are  not  dis 
criminated  against.  One  of  the  greatest  citizens  in  this 
city  is  a  Jew.  .  .  ." 

Aaron  rambled  on  in  this  manner  for  some  time. 
Emil's  eyes  were  wide  with  attention,  and  two  red 
spots  appeared  on  his  cheeks  from  the  strain  of  follow 
ing  his  father's  words  and  thoughts.  Masha  made  an 
end  to  the  exalted  discourse  by  calling  her  husband 
downstairs. 

When  Emil  caught  sight  of  his  brother  and  sister 
dressed  in  American  clothes,  he  was  taken  aback,  so 
great  was  the  difference  the  garments  made  in  their 
looks.  He  was  going  to  comment  upon  this  difference, 
but  Clara  already  had  him  by  the  hand  and  led  him  into 
the  kitchen  to  show  her  mother  how  fine  Emil  looked  in 
his  short  trousers. 

"  Why,  he  looks  like  a  little  child  —  not  like  a  boy 
of  ten,"  Clara  cried,  her  eyes  glistening  with  excite 
ment. 

Aaron  and  his  wife  exchanged  glances  at  the  ex 
pense  of  their  children,  from  whose  shoulders  their 
American  clothes  had  lifted  a  good  deal  of  premature 
age.  Masha's  eyes  grew  dim,  and  in  Aaron's  throat 


i8  WITTE  ARRIVES 

there  arose  a  lump.  Both  busied  themselves  with  the 
dishes,  Aaron  explaining  to  his  wife  the  uses  of  cer 
tain  utensils  that  she  had  never  seen  in  the  old  world. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  led  the  way  to  the  table,  and  the 
Witte  family  sat  down  to  its  first  breakfast  in  America. 


CHAPTER  II 

TAKING   ROOT 

THE  next  two  years  saw  a  remarkable  shift  in  the 
fortunes  of  the  little  immigrant  colony  in  Spring 
Water.  The  Nathans  had  ceased  to  be  pedlers  and 
now  owned  one  of  the  most  prosperous  general  stores. 
The  Rosen  boys  intrenched  themselves  almost  over 
night,  it  seemed,  as  the  leading  wholesale  fruit  dealers 
of  the  town,  and  their  father  discarded  his  pedler's 
wagon  and  was  supervising  things  in  the  warehouse. 
The  three  Goldman  brothers  were  prospering  in  the 
hide  and  wool  business. 

The  Witte  family  alone  stood  in  the  same  place. 
Aaron  still  dragged  himself  from  farmhouse  to  farm 
house  five  days  a  week,  peddling  his  far  from  up-to- 
date  stock  of  notions  and  minor  articles  of  clothing. 
Yet  Aaron  Witte  was  by  no  means  displeased  with  the 
new  world  or  with  his  lot  in  it.  If  he  was  still  a 
pedler  it  was  a  matter  of  his  own  volition. 

The  afternoon  of  Masha's  first  day  in  the  new  world, 
Aaron  took  her  out  for  a  stroll  along  outskirts  of  the 
city.  It  was  in  the  course  of  this  promenade  that  he 
mapped  out  their  future. 

19  - 


20  WITTE  ARRIVES 

The  Jewish  immigrant  in  a  town  like  Spring  Water 
could  choose  one  of  two  ways,  he  told  her.  He  could 
choose  the  road  which  led  to  prosperity,  and  even 
wealth.  But  then  he  had  to  give  up  much  that  is  sacred 
to  the  orthodox  Jew.  He  had  to  work  on  the  Sabbath, 
reverse  the  order  of  the  Lord  and  rest  on  the  first  in 
stead  of  on  the  seventh  day.  In  the  big  cities,  in  New 
York  or  Chicago,  the  Jew  could  still  cling  to  the  old 
order  and  get  by.  It  was  different  in  the  country, 
where  there  were  only  four  or  half  a  dozen  Jewish 
families  to  a  town.  To  stick  to  orthodoxy  here  meant 
to  step  out  of  the  race  for  prosperity. 

Aaron  was  not  unreasonable  with  the  men  who  chose 
this  road,  who  sacrificed  orthodoxy  for  worldly  suc 
cess  and  security.  The  Talmud  made  great  allowances 
where  the  question  of  a  living  entered.  But  for  him 
self  he  had  chosen  the  other  road.  He  kept  the  Sab 
bath  and  thereby  deprived  himself  not  only  of  a  good 
deal  of  revenue,  for  Saturday  was  the  best  business 
day,  but  also  of  the  chance  of  ever  going  into  business 
in  the  city.  His  horse  and  wagon  could  be  put  in  the 
barn  over  Saturday  and  Sunday.  A  store  could  not  be 
closed  for  two  days.  It  especially  could  not  be  closed 
on  Saturday  when  all  the  farmers  come  to  town  to 
trade. 

He  was  willing,  Aaron  went  on,  to  give  in  in  small 
matters.  He  could  yield  up  trifles.  As  she  saw,  his 
beard  was  trimmed  considerably.  But  trimming  one's 


TAKING  ROOT  21 

beard  was  after  all  a  minor  matter.  It  was  not  an 
infraction  of  the  law,  merely  of  a  custom.  Keeping 
the  Sabbath,  on  the  other  hand,  was  one  of  the  funda 
mentals  of  the  Hebrew  faith.  One  could  not  tamper 
with  the  foundation  without  endangering  the  entire 
structure.  .  .  .  He  was  too  old  a  man  to  change  his\ 
mode  of  living  to  suit  the  newer  conditions.  His  train- ) 
ing,  his  ideals  would  rebel  against  such  a  course  and 
would  make  him  unhappy.  He  felt  that  he  could  not 
make  such  a  dent  in  his  creed  without  robbing  his 
conscience  of  peace  forever.  Their  children  —  they 
no  doubt  would  choose  the  other  road.  But  he  and 
she  must  follow  the  path  of  their  fathers.  Besides, 
they  were  not  so  badly  off.  He  was  making  a  fair 
living.  And  the  children,  Harry  and  Clara,  would  be 
taking  care  of  themselves  soon.  Harry  would  prob 
ably  go  to  work  at  once.  Clara  would  soon  find  a 
position  in  some  store  —  the  young  ones  pick  up  the 
language  quickly.  So  they  would  have  only  Emil  to 
take  care  of. 

Masha  listened  to  her  husband's  voice  more  than  to 
his  words.  She  was  drinking  in  the  familiar  sound 
of  which  she  had  been  deprived  four  long  years. 
Nevertheless,  the  words  were  not  without  their  sooth 
ing  effect.  They  set  her  mind  at  ease.  She  had  heard 
that  America  often  transforms  men.  The  struggle  for 
existence  makes  them  hard-hearted,  destroys  their  finer 
sensibilities.  Every  time  she  received  a  letter  from 


22  WITTE  ARRIVES 

Aaron  she  had  studied  it  for  just  such  changes  in  her 
husband.  But  she  had  found  none.  Still  letters  are 
so  brief.  And  four  years  —  what  changes  might  not 
a  man  undergo  in  so  long  a  time ! 

Aaron's  words  set  her  at  ease.  But  they  also  pro 
voked  a  mild  resentment.  What  was  he  so  apologetic 
about  ?  Why  did  he  feel  so  guilty  for  not  exchanging 
the  Sabbath  for  cash,  for  not  bartering  his  religion 
for  prosperity?  Did  he  not  know  that  her  mind  was 
at  one  with  his  on  this  subject?  Was  not  she  a  daugh 
ter  of  Israel?  Who  cared  for  riches  that  could  be 
obtained  only  at  the  sacrifice  of  one's  faith? 

But  her  resentment  faded  the  moment  she  opened 
her  mouth  to  speak.  Instead  of  upbraiding  Aaron 
for  uncalled-for  apologies,  she  merely  assented  to 
everything  he  had  said,  and  the  conversation  shifted 
to  the  children,  centering  about  little  Emil.  The  He 
brew  teacher  in  Russia  had  praised  the  lad  highly. 
The  boy  had  an  open  mind,  the  teacher  had  said.  The 
Talmud  was  like  child's  play  to  him.  He  studied  the 
law  and  comprehended  it  like  a  grown  person. 

Emil,  meantime,  was  strolling  up  and  down  the  side 
walk  about  his  home,  observing  things  with  eager  eyes. 
The  neatly  constructed,  painted  homes,  with  porches 
and  lawns  in  front  of  them,  offered  such  a  striking  con 
trast  to  the  cumbersome  buildings  in  the  Russian  vil 
lage  where  he  was  born.  There  was  youthfulness 
about  the  houses,  about  the  well-paved  streets,  and  the 


TAKING  ROOT  23 

people  looked  so  joung.     And  they  were  so  cheerful. 

At  one  side  of  the  street  on  a  large  stretch  of  va 
cant  ground,  children,  little  boys  and  girls  his  own 
age,  were  playing.  The  boys  were  tossing  a  ball ;  the 
girls  looked  on  and  gurgled  every  time  the  boys  en 
gaged  in  a  scrimmage  for  the  ball.  The  little  im 
migrant,  who  had  waded  through  three  volumes  of 
the  Talmud  and  many  tracts  of  the  law,  looked  at 
the  boys  playing  just  as  he  looked  at  the  painted  houses 
and  the  paved  street  and  the  nice  green  lawns  —  as 
an  observer  looks  at  things  that  are  interesting  but 
are  in  no  way  a  part  of  him,  can  in  no  way  concern 
him. 

It  never  occurred  to  Emil  that  he,  too,  might  be 
playing  ball  like  the  children  there.  Though  many  of 
the  boys  at  play  were  so  much  bigger  than  himself, 
and  older,  he  yet  felt  unconsciously  as  if  he  were  way  \ 
above  them  in  age.  He  wondered  what  these  boysj 
were  thinking,  what  their  aim  in  life  was.  For  of 
course  everybody  must  have  an  aim  in  life,  like  him 
self.  Until  that  morning  his  aim  had  been  to  get  to 
his  father  in  America  and  tell  him  how  much  he  had 
accomplished.  Since  his  father  had  talked  to  him 
about  school  and  opportunities,  his  aim  was  "  to  make 
something  of  himself,"  as  his  father  had  put  it,  a  law 
yer,  a  judge  or  a  teacher.  Certainly  he  must  grasp 
the  opportunities  which  this  country  offered,  as  his 
father  had  said. 


24  WITTE  ARRIVES 

As  he  stood  thus  engrossed  in  his  own  thoughts,  he 
saw  a  little  girl,  who  had  been  observing  him  intently 
for  some  time,  leave  the  company  and  walk  over  toward 
him.  She  was  a  child  of  eight  with  a  delicate  face 
and  sparkling  black  eyes.  Her  jet-black  hair  was  fall 
ing  in  ringlets  about  her  shoulders.  As  she  ap 
proached  him  nearer  she  smiled.  Emil  started  to  move 
away  out  of  her  path,  but  she  addressed  him  —  in 
Yiddish. 

"  You  came  last  night?"  she  asked,  smiling. 

Emil  did  not  answer.  He  looked  at  her  with  sur 
prise.  She  spoke  Yiddish  with  such  a  strange  un- 
Jewish  accent. 

".Why  don't  you  answer  me?"  the  little  girl  con 
tinued,  smiling.  "  You  don't  look  like  a  '  greener  '  at 
all,"  she  added. 

"Are  you  —  Jewish?"  Emil  finally  managed  to 
blurt  out. 

"  Sure.  My  name  is  Lena  Rosen.  My  mother  was 
over  to  your  house  last  night  when  you  came.  Do 
you  want  to  come  and  play  with  us?  " 

"  I  can't,  I  don't  know  how,"  Emil  answered  in  con 
fusion.  What  he  wanted  to  say  was  something  en 
tirely  different.  He  wanted  to  tell  her  that  a  boy  who 
had  got  through  with  three  volumes  of  the  Talmud 
must  only  play  with  children  of  his  own  sex  —  with 
boys.  But  so  many  of  his  old-world  notions  of  what 
is  proper  had  gone  against  the  rocks  in  the  course  of 


TAKING  ROOT  25 

-his  journey  to  America,  and  especially  in  the  half  day 
he  had  been  in  Spring  Water,  that  he  checked  himself, 
for  fear  that  he  might  say  something  that  was  not 
proper. 

"  Oh,  you  will  learn  to  play,"  the  child  persisted. 
"  My  brother  —  there  he  is,  the  fellow  with  the  ball  — 
could  not  play  either,  when  he  came  here  three  years 
ago.  Now  he  is  the  captain  of  the  team,  see?  " 

Emil  did  not  understand  what  she  meant  by  "  cap 
tain  "  and  "  team,"  and  little  Lena  was  not  conscious 
of  having  said  anything  to  him  that  was  not  good 
Yiddish.  Emil  was  interested  in  her  brother,  how 
ever. 

"  And  your  brother  did  not  speak  English  when  he 
came  here  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,  and  I  did  not  either,  not  a  word.  And  now 
mama  scolds  him  because  he  won't  talk  Jewish  to  her. 
I  do  though.  I  always  talk  Jewish  to  mama.  Can 
you  add?  I  can  add  and  subtract." 

Emil  not  only  could  add  and  subtract,  he  could  mul 
tiply  and  divide  as  well.  He  had  gone  to  a  teacher 
in  Russia  for  two  hours  a  day  to  supplement  his  Tal- 
mudic  studies  with  worldly  learning.  He  described 
his  studies  to  her  animatedly.  At  last  he  had  safe 
ground  to  stand  on. 

Lena  listened  to  him  and  was  impressed. 

"  You  know  much,"  she  said.  "  In  three  weeks 
school  starts.  I'll  go  back  to  school  and  I'm  going 


26  WITTE  ARRIVES 

to  learn  much,  too.  Can  I  take  you  to  school  the  first 
day?  You  have  to  have  somebody  take  you  there, 
you  know.  I'll  take  you  to  the  principal,  Miss  Upham. 
She  is  nice.  She  likes  children  who  come  from  the 
old  world.  They  learn  so  quick,  she  says/' 

Lena  kept  her  word.  The  day  school  opened  she 
was  at  the  Witte  home  bright  and  early.  Aaron  was 
going  to  take  Emil  to  the  principal  in  person.  But 
Lena  assured  him  it  was  not  necessary.  And  Lena's 
mother  said  the  same.  So  the  little  girl  piloted  Emil 
through  his  first  day  in  an  American  school,  and  there 
after  the  two  were  often  to  be  seen  walking  side  by 
side  with  their  school  books.  At  the  end  of  two  years 
Emil  had  left  Lena  one  grade  below  him. 

The  first  Jewish  wedding  in  Spring  Water  was  an 
event  that  transcended  the  confines  of  the  immigrant 
colony,  which  by  this  time  had  increased  to  a  dozen 
families.  It  was  a  real  romance,  and  it  got  into  the 
papers.  A  young  man,  who  had  established  himself 
as  a  vegetable  huckster,  had  sent  for  his  bride  in  the 
old  world.  The  entire  Jewish  community  took  an  in 
terest  in  this  affair  of  the  heart,  and  a  very  elaborate 
wedding  was  held.  A  rabbi  was  called  in  from  a  city 
eighty  miles  distant  to  officiate. 

After  the  ceremony  was  performed  there  came  toasts 
and  short  speeches.  Each  one  said  something  com 
mendatory,  laudatory  about  the  groom  and  the  bride. 


TAKING  ROOT  27 

The  talk  was  very  intimate,  homelike,  simple.  When 
the  turn  came  for  Aaron  Witte  to  speak,  he  rose,  filled 
his  glass  and  began  with  the  customary  wishes  and 
congratulations.  A  Biblical  phrase  slipped  his  tongue, 
an  allusion  to  Jacob  marrying  in  a  strange  land,  far 
away  from  parents  and  friends.  This  allusion  opened 
up  a  flood  of  words  and  feelings.  And  the  higher 
Aaron's  voice  rose,  the  more  intense  became  the  silence 
in  the  room.  .  .  . 

He  spoke  about  the  new  world,  about  America, 
about  the  significance  of  this  wedding  to  the  Jewish 
community  in  Spring  Water,  the  debt  which  this  young 
couple  —  which  they  all  —  owed  this  new  world  that 
had  been  so  kind  to  them,  had  offered  them  a  haven 
from  persecution,  had  opened  its  bountiful  stores  to 
them  without  discrimination,  to  them  —  oppressed, 
driven  Jews.  .  .  . 

The  people  looked  at  one  another  surprised,  aston 
ished.  They  had  never  paid  more  than  passing  at 
tention  to  the  quiet,  unassuming  pedler.  They  had 
never  suspected  him  of  so  much  erudition,  of  such  a 
gift  of  speech.  Their  respect  for  him  grew  with  their 
silence.  But  Aaron  was  oblivious  of  the  one  as  of  the 
other.  He  spoke  evenly  and  feelingly  about  their  du 
ties  to  their  adopted  country.  They  must  dedicate 
themselves  to  a  high  order  of  citizenship.  They  must 
make  themselves  worthy  of  the  blessings  and  the  op 
portunities  which  were  bestowed  upon  them  freely, 


28  WITTE  ARRIVES 

gratuitously,  but  for  which  the  fathers  of  this  coun 
try  once  fought,  and  died.  He  wound  up  with  a  toast 
to  America  and  freedom. 

The  toast  was  drunk,  and  then  people  crowded  about 
Aaron  and  shook  his  hand,  and  praised  him  and  ap 
proved  his  utterances,  as  if  his  speech  was  the  thing 
they  came  there  for  —  the  bride  and  groom  were  for 
gotten  for  the  moment.  A  reporter  from  the  Sentinel, 
the  only  morning  paper  in  town,  who  was  interested 
in  the  wedding  and  was  present  throughout  the  cere 
mony,  now  called  aside  one  of  the  Rosen  boys  and 
questioned  him  about  the  speech,  what  had  been  said. 
Young  Rosen  translated  some  of  Aaron's  remarks,  and 
the  next  morning  there  was  a  half -column  report  of 
the  glowing  tribute  Witte  had  paid  to  America  in 
the  Spring  Water  Sentinel.  Aaron  could  not  read  the 
article  in  the  paper,  but  Emil  read  it  and  was  very 
happy  and  proud,  as  if  this  were  the  thing  he  had  all 
along  expected  from  his  father. 

The  impromptu  speech  of  Aaron  had  a  notable  ef 
fect  upon  the  life  of  the  Witte  family.  An  old,  half- 
forgotten  incident  in  Aaron's  life  was  heaved  out  into 
the  light  and  for  weeks  was  a  topic  of  conversation 
in  the  Jewish  community,  as  if  the  thing  had  taken 
place  only  yesterday.  It  was  the  story  of  Witte' s  mar 
riage,  his  and  Masha's  love  affair.  The  story  briefly 
was  this : 

In  his  youth  Aaron  was  famed  as  a  scholar  of  the 


TAKING  ROOT  29 

Talmud.  Everybody  looked  forward  to  his  becoming 
a  rabbi.  When  he  reached  the  age  when  a  ghetto 
youth  in  the  Russian  Pale  might  properly  think  of 
marriage,  the  marriage  brokers  of  the  town,  the 
"  schadchens,"  were  hot  on  his  trail.  Many  a  rich  man 
coveted  the  famed  youth  for  a  son-in-law.  There  was 
a  rabbinate  and  fortune  ahead  of  him  if  he  married 
"  into  the  right  family."  Aaron's  father,  who  was 
poor,  encouraged  the  marriage  brokers  and  urged  his 
son  to  marry  wisely.  But  Aaron  seemed  in  no  hurry 
to  get  married,  and  the  plans  of  his  father  and  the 
anxious  schadchens  lagged  behind. 

Then  came  the  critical  day.  The  richest  man  in 
town  sent  a  marriage  broker  with  a  proposal.  He 
wanted  Aaron  for  his  daughter.  It  was  a  sure  rab 
binate,  standing,  riches.  There  was  no  dallying  any 
longer.  Aaron's  father  took  a  hand  in  the  matter. 
His  son  must  decide  at  once.  Then  the  strange,  fairly 
unbelievable  thing  happened.  Aaron  decided,  but  not 
in  favor  of  the  rich  man's  daughter,  whom  he  had  not 
even  cared  to  meet  or  see,  but  in  favor  of  their  neigh 
bor's  daughter,  Masha  —  in  favor  of  a  girl  without  a 
rich  father  and  without  a  dowry,  but  possessing  deep, 
black  eyes  that  looked  out  upon  the  world  feelingly  and 
a  little  sadly  from  under  long  black  lashes. 

There  was  a  storm,  of  course.  Masha's  father  was 
only  a  tailor.  Aaron's  father  could  not  find  words 
enough  to  express  his  disapproval,  to  utter  his  disap- 


30  WITTE  ARRIVES 

pointment.  But  Aaron  clung  to  his  choice.  With  his 
marriage  to  Masha  his  prospective  career  as  a  rabbi 
came  to  an  end.  He  set  up  a  Hebrew  school  and  for 
some  years  managed  to  eke  an  existence  as  a  teacher. 
Later  he  went  into  business. 

This  story  of  Aaron's  and  Masha's  love,  which  to 
them  was  beginning  to  appear  as  a  half-forgotten 
legend,  now  made  them  friends  in  Spring  Water,  made 
them  distinguished.  The  young  especially  were  taken 
by  it.  Aaron  Witte,  then,  was  not  one  of  those  old- 
fashioned  Jews,  even  if  he  was  orthodox.  .  .  . 

The  Jewish  community  in  Spring  Water  was  now 
large  enough  to  maintain  a  place  of  worship  at  least 
for  the  more  important  Hebrew  holidays.  A  hall  was 
rented  for  that  purpose  and  a  congregation  organized. 
Witte  was  unanimously  chosen  president.  On  holi 
days,  especially  on  New  Year's  Day  and  on  the  eve 
of  the  Day  of  Atonement,  he  would  preach  a  short 
sermon.  These  sermons  invariably  won  the  approval 
of  the  congregation.  For  they  were  liberal  in  spirit. 
Witte  did  not  leave  out  of  consideration  the  exigencies 
of  the  times  and  conditions.  He  deplored  the  lapses 
in  devotions  into  which  the  Jews  of  Spring  Water  in 
common  with  Jews  all  over  America  were  falling.  .  .  . 
But  he  made  allowances  too.  There  were  many  things 
to  be  taken  into  consideration,  many  reasons  for  this 
infringing  on  matters  that  are  sacred.  There  were 
the  differences  in  civilization,  the  demands  of  industry, 


TAKING  ROOT  31 

the  inexorable  struggle  for  existence  —  all  pleading 
for  leniency. 

"Old  man  Witte"—  after  his  speech  at  the  wed 
ding  Aaron  was  spoken  of  as  "  Old  Man  Witte  " — 
"  certainly  has  his  heart  in  the  right  place,"  was  the 
comment  on  such  a  talk  of  his  to  the  congregation. 
And  the  answer  invariably  was :  "  Yes,  he  has  a  won 
derful  brain.  Did  you  hear  the  story  how  he  missed 
becoming  a  rabbi?  It  is  worth  hearing.  .  .  ." 

One  by  one  Witte's  neighbors  had  moved  into  better 
homes  in  the  more  aristocratic  part  of  town.  Time 
had  dealt  kindly  with  them.  They  were  growing 
wealthy.  Their  business  prosperity  not  only  made 
possible  but  demanded  more  style  and  elaborateness 
in  their  homes  and  social  life.  Most  of  the  older  men, 
however,  would  frequently  drive  up  to  Witte's  home 
to  talk  over  communal  matters.  Often,  indeed,  they 
would  seek  his  counsel  before  the  consummation  of  an 
important  family  or  business  event.  "  Talk  it  over 
with  Old  Man  Witte/'  became  a  common  phrase  with 
the  Jews  of  Spring  Water. 

It  was  the  first  warm  Saturday  in  May.  Aaron 
pulled  out  a  rocker  from  the  parlor,  seated  himself 
comfortably  on  the  porch  and  unfolded  the  Weekly 
Gazette.  Masha  and  Clara,  now  nearing  seventeen, 
were  standing  on  the  lawn  near-by,  studying  the  dis 
comfited  appearance  of  the  precarious  flower  bed  in 
front  of  them.  The  rain  had  washed  it  out  almost 


32  WITTE  ARRIVES 

completely,  and  Clara  had  put  so  much  labor  on  that 
flower  bed.  Now  she  feared  she  would  have  to  plant 
it  anew. 

"  Masha,"  Aaron  called.  He  had  just  come  across 
an  item  in  the  paper  about  their  home  town.  It  was 
so  unusual  to  see  their  home  village  figure  in  print  that 
he  wanted  to  read  the  item  to  his  wife.  As  he  lifted 
his  head  from  the  paper,  however,  Aaron  perceived  a 
familiar  figure  coming  up  the  street. 

"Isn't  that  Miss  Raymond  coming?"  Witte  asked 
his  wife,  forgetting  the  item.  Masha's  eyes  were  bet 
ter  than  his,  and  she  instantly  recognized  the  principal 
of  the  school  which  Emil  attended.  Miss  Raymond, 
though  still  two  houses  away  from  the  Wittes',  smiled 
a  greeting.  Aaron  and  his  wife  rose  from  their  seats. 
Was  she  coming  to  them?  Why?  She  had  never 
done  so  before. 

It  was  about  Emil  that  Miss  Raymond  came.  He 
was  to  graduate  in  June.  It  was  the  middle  of  May 
then.  Only  a  few  weeks  and  he  would  be  out  of  her 
control.  Of  course  she  had  nothing  to  say  about 
Emil's  future.  But  she  was  interested  in  him,  and  she 
was  a  trifle  anxious  as  to  what  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Witte 
were  planning  to  do  with  the  lad. 

She  did  not  wish  to  intrude,  she  went  on  guardedly, 
but  she  thought  she  might  advise  them,  if  they  did  not 
already  know  it,  that  the  high  school  was  entirely  free, 
there  was  no  expense  whatever  to  attend  it.  And 


TAKING  ROOT  33 

Emil  was  such  a  pupil.  He  simply  absorbed  things. 
It  would  be  nice  if  he  could  go  to  high  school.  In  fact 
it  would  be  a  pity  if  he  did  not  go.  For  he  had,  she 
really  believed,  he  had  a  great  future  before  him.  Few 
boys  were  so  earnest  about  their  studies  at  his  age. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Witte  did  not  understand  everything 
Miss  Raymond  was  saying.  But  they  understood  that 
Emil  was  being  praised  by  his  teacher.  Clara  took  a 
hand  at  this  juncture  and  in  a  few  sentences  in  Yiddish 
made  clear  to  her  parents  the  import  of  Miss  Ray 
mond's  visit. 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  Aaron  hastened,  speaking 
in  a  fairly  solemn  voice.  Of  course  Emil  would  go  to 
school,  to  high  school.  He  meant  his  boy  to  get  an 
education,  of  course.  He  would,  God  willing,  even 
send  him  to  the  University.  There  was  a  far  away 
look  in  his  eyes. 

The  principal  thanked  him  and  Mrs.  Witte.  Then, 
as  if  she  had  overlooked  the  real  purpose  of  the  visit, 
she  began  speaking  hastily  and  in  very  earnest  tones. 
Was  Emil  well?  Was  his  health  good?  A  startled 
look  came  into  the  faces  of  the  father  and  mother. 
Why,  was  anything  the  matter  with  their  boy?  Had 
she  noticed  anything? 

Miss  Raymond  tried  to  correct  herself  now.  She 
began  to  allay  their  fears.  She  had  noticed  nothing. 
As  far  as  she  could  see  Emil  was  in  the  best  of  health. 
But  he  always  kept  to  himself  so  much.  He  played  so 


34  WITTE  ARRIVES 

little  with  the  boys.  She  was  sometimes  afraid  that 
he  was  too  serious  in  his  pursuits.  They,  his  parents, 
should  urge  him  to  play  more.  It  would  be  well  to 
keep  him  back  from  reading  and  see  that  he  got  more 
exercise. 

When  Miss  Raymond  was  gone,  Mrs.  Witte  and  her 
daughter  recalled  that  they  had  forgotten  to  ask  the 
teacher  to  sit  down.  Mrs.  Witte  began  upbraiding 
Clara  for  her  thoughtlessness.  Aaron  heard  nothing 
of  this.  He  was  thinking  over  Miss  Raymond's  con 
versation.  Straight  ahead  the  sun  was  setting,  leaving 
a  fiery  sky  in  its  wake.  A  mellow  spring  day  and  a 
happy  Sabbath  was  drawing  to  a  close,  but  a  new  sun 
was  rising  before  Witte's  eyes,  the  sun  of  mem 
ories.  .  .  . 

In  what  the  teacher  had  just  said  about  Emil  he  saw, 
as  if  in  a  mirror,  his  own  youth.  "  He  does  not  play 
with  the  boys,  he  ought  to  be  kept  away  from  books, 
from  reading.'*  How  like  himself,  like  his  own  child 
hood. 

His  mother,  peace  to  her  memory,  arose  before  his 
eyes.  How  often  would  she  wake  up  in  the  middle  of 
a  long  winter  night,  come  up  to  him  where  he  sat 
absorbed  in  the  Talmud,  remind  him  of  the  late  hour, 
and  urge  him  to  close  the  book  and  go  to  bed  for  his 
health's  sake. 

Witte  forgot  Emil  for  the  moment  and  thought  of  his 
mother.  A  saintly  woman  she  was.  And  she  loved 


TAKING  ROOT  35 

him  —  Oh,  how  she  loved  him!  When  he  set  his 
heart  on  Masha  and  refused  to  marry  the  daughter  of  a 
rich  man,  throwing  away  thereby  the  sure  chance  of  a 
career  and  fame  as  a  rabbi,  his  mother  was  not  angry 
with  him.  His  father  stormed  and  threatened.  He 
even  lifted  his  hand  to  strike  Aaron  in  a  burst  of  anger. 
But  she,  peace  to  her  memory,  stood  between  them. 

Late  that  night,  when  his  father  was  sleeping,  and 
he,  Aaron,  was  trying  to  forget  the  stormy  scene  of 
the  evening  behind  a  folio  of  the  Talmud,  his  mother 
crept  up  to  him  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  bench  beside 
him. 

She  was  in  tears.  But,  she  explained,  they  were 
tears  of  happiness.  She  was  happy  that  he,  Aaron, 
had  chosen  Masha,  glad  that  he  loved  the  girl  so  much. 
She  was  a  good  girl,  Masha  was  —  a  golden  child. 
She  could  not  wish  a  better  daughter-in-law.  Masha 
would  make  him  happy.  And  he  must  not  worry  be 
cause  he  was  throwing  away  a  rabbinate  on  account  of 
the  girl.  It  did  not  matter  what  one's  occupation  was, 
so  long  as  one  was  happy.  And  he  would  be  happy 
with  Masha.  And  before  the  Lord  we  were  all 
children.  All  alike,  the  humble  and  the  mighty  — 

Poor,  old  mother,  Witte  mused.  If  she  could  only 
see  Emil.  There  was  a  child  after  her  heart.  But  she 
had  not  seen  any  of  his  children.  She  died  before  the 
first  one  came. 

There  were  familiar  steps  far  down  the  sidewalk. 


36  WITTE  ARRIVES 

Emil  was  coming  from  the  library  with  several  books 
under  his  arm.  Aaron  Witte  rose  and  almost  solemnly 
walked  up  to  the  gate  to  meet  his  son. 

The  high  school  brought  father  and  son  closer  to 
gether.  Witte  could  exercise  comparatively  little  in 
fluence  over  Emil  while  the  latter  was  still  in  the  grades. 
He  could  not  read  English  and  his  knowledge  of  arith 
metic  did  not  extend  beyond  simple  fractions.  With 
the  high  school  things  took  a  different  turn. 

As  they  sat  down  one  Friday  evening  to  their 
abundant  Sabbath  meal,  Emil  asked : 

"  Father,  do  you  know  a  Jewish  historian  named 
Josephus  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  Witte's  eyes  snapped,  "  Josephus,  of 
course ;  how  do  you  come  to  know  about  Josephus  ?  " 

"  There  is  a  reference  to  him  in  my  Roman  history," 
Emil  answered. 

When  the  meal  was  over  Witte  rose  from  the  table 
earlier  than  was  his  custom  on  the  Sabbath  eve.  He 
fumbled  for  some  time  in  a  closet  where  he  had  stored 
away  many  of  his  Hebrew  books.  Finally  he  emerged 
with  a  small  volume  and  took  his  place  at  the  table  once 
more. 

He  read  to  Emil  a  legend  about  Josephus  contained 
in  the  volume.  Then,  his  memory  refreshed,  he  talked 
for  a  long  time  about  the  historian,  the  age  he  lived  in, 
and  the  significance  of  that  age  in  the  history  of 
Israel. 


TAKING  ROOT  37 

Masha  looked  by  turns  at  her  husband  and  her 
son.  She  was  happy  when  her  husband  talked  about 
books  and  learning.  And  she  liked  the  gleam  in  Emil's 
eyes  with  which  he  followed  his  father's  words. 

On  another  occasion  Emil  told  his  father  that  the 
following  week  he  would  have  to  write  a  composition 
on  Alexander  the  Great.  Witte  prepared  himself  for 
that  week.  He  took  the  little  Hebrew  book  with  him 
to  the  country,  and  in  the  long  winter  evenings,  spent 
at  modest  hotels  or  with  friendly  farmers,  the  old 
pedler  read  the  legends  and  the  sagas  of  the  Talmud 
which  dealt  with  Alexander  the  Great,  for  the  benefit 
of  his  young  son  in  the  high  school. 

Emil  listened  eagerly  to  the  Talmudic  stories  about 
the  Persian  conqueror  which  his  father  told  him. 
They  were  so  full  of  interest,  so  different  from  the  dry 
facts  and  dates  about  the  Persian  king  which  the  books 
he  had  access  to  gave. 

Henceforth  Emil  kept  his  father  advised  about  his 
studies.  And  Witte  utilized  his  evenings  in  the  coun 
try,  reading,  searching  for  information  in  his  old 
Hebrew  books  which  might  be  suited  to  his  son's  eager 
mind.  The  Friday  evening  meals  now  began  to  last 
until  late  in  the  night.  Emil  looked  forward  eagerly 
to  these  evenings.  His  mother  thanked  the  Lord  in 
silent  prayer  for  them. 

For  she  had  seen  some  of  the  tragedies  which  schools 
and  education  bring  into  the  homes  of  immigrants. 


38  WITTE  ARRIVES 

The  children,  who  had  gone  through  school,  thought 
themselves  superior  to  their  "  greenhorn "  parents. 
They  were  disrespectful  to  them.  In  her  house  the 
school,  education,  united  father  and  son  more  and 
more.  It  increased  the  respect  of  the  son  for  the 
father.  Often  after  these  long,  learned  discussions  be 
tween  Aaron  and  Emil,  Mrs.  Witte  would  wipe  a  tear 
which  had  stolen  into  her  eyes  from  sheer  happiness. 

Father  and  son  would  frequently  go  out  for  a  walk 
together  and  talk  over  many  things.  The  people  of 
Spring  Water  noticed  this,  and  their  respect  for  Witte 
and  his  young  son  grew.  They  were  greeted  with 
deference  by  their  fellow  countrymen.  The  reputation 
of  each  was  enhanced  in  their  eyes  through  the  associa 
tion  with  the  other. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   LONG   LOST  BROTHER 

IN  the  parlor  of  the  Witte  home  hung  an  enlarged 
picture  of  a  young  man  attired  in  the  uniform  of 
a  Russian  university  student.  Mrs.  Witte  avoided 
mentioning  that  picture  or  drawing  attention  to  it  in  her 
husband's  presence,  and  she  taught  her  children  to  do 
likewise.  The  crayon  portrait,  hung  in  the  most  con 
spicuous  corner  of  the  room,  was  a  chronic  wound  in 
the  Witte  household.  Ever  and  anon  it  would  break 
out  and  start  bleeding. 

It  was  a  picture  of  Aaron's  lost  brother,  Simeon.  .  .  . 

For  months  and  months  Aaron  would  give  the  pic 
ture  merely  a  passing  glance.  Before  an  important 
holiday,  however,  the  Passover  or  the  New  Year,  he 
would  steal  up  to  it  on  tiptoe,  wipe  the  dust  off  the 
glass,  look  at  it  for  a  long  time,  and  then,  covering  his 
eyes  with  the  palm  of  his  hand,  would  plunge  into  deep 
meditation,  as  if  holding  a  spiritual  reunion  with  his 
lost  brother.  .  .  . 

Aaron  Witte  was  reading  the  Weekly  Gazette. 
Masha  sat  in  a  chair  a  few  feet  away,  the  prayer-book 
in  her  lap.  She  was  just  finishing  the  last  prayer  of 
the  long  Sabbath  service. 

39 


40  WITTE  ARRIVES 

The  Gazette  slipped  from  Aaron's  hand.  When 
Masha  looked  up  his  face  was  ashen  and  his  arms 
hung  as  if  paralyzed.  Aaron  motioned  to  her  to  pick 
up  the  paper.  He  took  it  in  his  trembling  hands  and 
read  the  same  paragraph  over.  No,  his  eyes  were  not 
deceiving  him.  He  was  not  dreaming.  It  was  there. 
He  pointed  the  place  out  to  his  wife.  She  read  it  and 
the  joyous  import  of  the  item  came  to  her  in  a  flash. 
Jubilantly  she  cried : 

"  He  lives  and  he  is  free.     He  is  coming.'* 

Aaron  had  regained  his  composure  by  this  time.  He 
read  the  item  in  the  paper  once  more,  aloud.  In  a  few 
sentences  the  Gazette  stated  that  the  well-known  revo 
lutionist,  Simeon  Witkowski,  who,  with  a  number  of 
other  nihilists,  had  been  arrested  and  charged  with  at 
tempting  to  assassinate  the  Czar,  Alexander  III,  and 
had  not  been  heard  from  since,  had  arrived  in  Switzer 
land  after  a  sensational  escape  from  Siberia. 

It  was  soon  after  Aaron  married  that  Simeon,  his 
younger  brother,  left  the  village  to  go  to  Vilna. 
Simeon,  too,  had  been  destined  by  his  father  for  the 
rabbinate,  and  had  already  gone  in  his  Talmudic  studies 
far  beyond  the  courses  which  were  offered  in  the  local 
Hebrew  school.  Twice  in  the  next  four  years  Simeon 
came  home  for  the  Passover.  Then  after  a  long 
silence  they  received  a  letter  from  him  from  St. 
Petersburg.  He  had  dropped  his  Talmudic  studies,  he 
informed  his  father: — his  mother  had  been  dead  for 


THE  LONG  LOST  BROTHER          41 

some  time  —  soon  after  his  arrival  in  Vilna  and  had 
turned  to  the  acquisition  of  a  Russian,  of  a  European 
education.  In  this  he  had  been  successful  and  had  just 
passed  with  considerable  excellence  his  entrance  exam 
ination  to  the  University,  and  was  enrolled  as  a  student 
in  the  medical  faculty. 

Aaron  Witte  recalled  the  astonishment  with  which 

i 

his  father,  stern  orthodox  that  he  was,  read  the  letter, 
the  keen  disappointment  with  which  he  relinquished 
forever  the  hope  of  seeing  his  son's  name  inscribed  on 
the  roster  along  with  the  names  of  the  rabbis  who  were 
famous  in  Israel. 

Simeon,  however,  never  became  a  doctor.  After  a 
lapse  of  some  time  the  chief  of  the  gendarmes  in  the 
district  drove  up  to  the  house  where  the  white-haired 
father  of  Aaron  and  Simeon  was  living.  The  head  of 
the  gendarmes  read  to  the  old  man  a  long  official  docu 
ment  from  the  authorities  at  St.  Petersburg.  His  voice 
was  a  mixture  of  solemnity  and  anger,  as  he  read  it. 
The  old  man  did  not  understand  a  word  of  what  the 
chief  of  the  gendarmes  was  saying,  beyond  hearing  his 
son's,  Simeon's,  name  mentioned  at  frequent  intervals. 

After  he  finished  reading  the  imposing-looking  docu 
ment,  which  bore  many  government  seals  and  stamps, 
the  head  of  the  gendarmes  in  a  few  plain  words,  liber 
ally  interspersed  with  oaths,  imparted  to  the  old  man 
the  information  that  his  son  Simeon  had  deliberately 
thrown  himself  outside  the  pale  of  men,  that  he  had 


42  WITTE  ARRIVES 

joined  an  infamous  band  of  plotters,  nihilists,  who  had 
planned  to  take  the  life  of  the  Little  Father  of  "  Holy 
Russia,"  the  Czar,  Alexander  Alexandrowitch. 

The  last  words  came  from  beneath  the  mustache  of 
the  chief  of  the  gendarmes  like  bullets  fired  off  in  rapid 
succession.  With  blazing  eyes  the  secret  service 
official  looked  at  the  trembling,  white-faced  Jew  in  front 
of  him,  expecting  an  approving  answer.  But  the  old 
man  stammered  forth  weakly: 

"  Where  is  my  boy  now  ?  What  did  they  do  with 
him?" 

The  chief  of  the  gendarmes  did  not  know  what  they 
had  done  with  Simeon  Witkowski.  His  orders  were 
merely  to  apprise  the  father  and  search  him,  as  well 
as  every  member  of  Simeon's  family.  The  solicitude 
of  the  old  man  for  his  son  roiled  the  official. 

"  What?  "  he  thundered.  "  You  still  call  him  your 
son!  A  dog  he  is,  an  enemy  of  the  people,  a  plotter 
on  the  life  of  the  Little  Father.  You  are  forbidden  to 
ask  what  became  of  him.  The  government  knows 
what  to  do  with  such  characters.  Give  him  up  for 
dead.  That  is  my  advice  —  unless  you  approve  of  the 
dog's  conduct.  Do  you  approve  of  it?  Speak!  " 

The  old  man  spoke.  He  swore,  he  trembled.  He 
did  not  approve  of  his  son's  actions  —  never  —  never 
—  He  wept  and  kissed  the  official's  hand.  How  could 
he  approve  of  it?  Was  he  not  a  loyal  subject  of  the 
Czar  ?  He  loved  the  Czar,  and  prayed  for  him  and  for 


THE  LONG  LOST  BROTHER         43 

the  empire.  .  .  .  How  could  such  a  thought  enter  his 
son's  mind! 

The  head  of  the  gendarmes  ordered  half  a  dozen 
subordinates,  who  accompanied  him,  to  search  the 
house.  From  the  Witkowski  home  they  turned  to  other 
families  in  town  and  searched  their  premises.  Every 
one  remotely  connected  with  the  Witkowski  household, 
or  friendly  to  the  old  man,  was  searched.  The  chief  of 
the  gendarmes  then  sought  out  Aaron  in  the  village 
where  he  lived.  The  same  scene  was  reenacted  there. 
The  same  instructions  were  given.  He  must  not  men 
tion  the  name  of  his  brother  who  had  cast  himself  out 
side  the  pale  of  human  beings  by  having  designs  on  the 
Czar,  by  plotting  the  ruin  of  his  country. 

Aaron  and  his  father  were  put  under  police  sur 
veillance  for  a  year.  Each  could  not  leave  his  respec 
tive  domicile.  Both  father  and  son  had  learned  to 
suppress  the  word  Simeon  from  their  lips.  The  father 
died  soon  after  the  year  was  over.  And  Aaron  began 
making  plans  to  leave  for  America.  .  .  . 

...  So  then,  Simeon  was  alive,  he  was  free.  And 
he  was  out  of  the  Czar's  domain.  Aaron  Witte  paced 
up  and  down  the  room  searching  his  mind  for  a  way 
to  communicate  with  his  brother.  The  information 
gained  from  the  small  item  in  the  Gazette  was  too 
meager  to  be  of  much  assistance  in  this  search  for 
Simeon.  He  looked  through  the  other  Yiddish  papers. 
They  all  contained  the  item  about  Simeon  Witkowski's 


44  WITTE  ARRIVES 

escape  from  Siberia.  Some  described  in  detail  the 
attempt  on  the  life  of  the  Czar  in  which  Simeon 
figured.  Mention  was  made  of  the  more  noted  mem 
bers  of  the  group  of  nihilists  to  which  Simeon  belonged 
and  who  were  either  dead  or  in  exile.  But  there  was 
no  clue  as  to  the  present  whereabouts  of  Simeon  beyond 
the  general  statement  that  he  had  arrived  in  Switzer 
land. 

Witte  waited  until  after  sundown  when  the  Sabbath 
came  to  a  close  and  then  sat  down  and  wrote  a  confi 
dential  letter  to  the  editor  of  the  Weekly  Gazette  telling 
him  of  his  predicament  and  asking  his  advice  on  how 
to  communicate  with  his  brother. 

In  a  week  a  reply  came.  The  Gazette  editor  sent 
him  the  address  of  the  secretary  of  the  revolutionary 
group  in  London  to  which  Simeon  belonged.  The 
London  branch  of  the  group  undoubtedly  would  be  able 
to  forward  to  Simeon  any  communication  his  brother 
Aaron  sent  it.  Aaron  wrote  to  the  secretary  of  the 
group  in  London  and  enclosed  a  letter  for  his  brother. 

The  letter,  written  with  trembling  hand,  read  in 
part: 

"  I  have  learned  since  I  came  to  America  much  about 
what  you  nihilists  want.  I  understand  and  sympathize 
with  it.  ...  I  have  always  been  with  you.  You  were 
never  out  of  my  mind  from  the  day  I  learned  of  your 
disappearance.  In  Russia  the  police  ordered  that  your 


THE  LONG  LOST  BROTHER         45 

name  be  anathema,  that  it  be  not  mentioned  in  our  house 
under  the  pain  of  arrest  and  imprisonment.  ...  It 
was  the  wish  to  call  your  name,  to  speak  about  you, 
my  brother,  freely  and  without  fear  of  gendarmes  and 
police,  that  caused  me  to  come  to  America. 

"  Now  I  am  getting  old.  I  am  forty-seven.  And 
I  want  to  see  you.  I  want  you  to  come  to  me.  I  pray 
that  you  do  come.  Remain  with  us  forever,  if  you 
can,  or  else,  stay  as  long  as  you  are  able,  as  long  as 
your  work  will  permit.  I  make  no  exactions.  I  have 
not  seen  you  in  twenty  years.  One  does  not  know 
how  long  one  may  live.  I  want  to  see  you  —  I  have 
waited  to  see  you  these  many  years  —  for  in  my  mind 
I  could  not  reconcile  myself  to  anything  but  that  you 
would  come  back  to  us.  .  .  ." 

In  spots  the  writing  was  blurred  by  tears  which 
Aaron  could  not  hold  back  in  spite  of  his  effort  to  do 
so.  In  spots  it  was  unsteady,  for  Aaron's  hand 
trembled  a  number  of  times  as  he  referred  to  names 
and  scenes  of  a  vanished  past. 

In  three  weeks  there  came  an  answer  from  the  secre 
tary  of  the  London  group.  It  was  a  brief,  sympathetic 
note,  which  set  Aaron  wondering  why  people  were 
saying  that  revolutionists  had  no  regard  for  personal 
feelings,  for  relatives,  for  brothers.  .  .  . 

The  secretary,  whom  Aaron  did  not  know,  whose 
name  he  had  never  heard  before,  wrote  him  that  he 


46  WITTE  ARRIVES 

would  be  very  happy  indeed  to  transmit  Aaron's  letter 
to  his  distinguished  brother,  Simeon  Witkowski,  and 
would  be  happier  still  to  see  the  brothers  reunited. 
The  letter  would  be  forwarded  to  his  brother  in  the 
speediest  manner  possible,  though  it  would  have  to  be 
in  a  roundabout  way  as  Simeon's  whereabouts  were 
still  kept  secret  for  precautionary  reasons.  It  ended 
with  warm  congratulations  to  Aaron  Witte  on  his 
brother's  successful  escape  from  the  Siberian  dungeon. 

There  began  for  the  Wittes  an  agonizing  period  of 
constant  watching  for  the  mailman.  Aaron  would 
now  come  from  the  country  earlier  than  usual,  and  his 
first  question  was  whether  Simeon  had  written.  But 
Simeon  did  not  write.  The  winter  went  and  spring 
came,  and  the  Passover.  The  joy  of  the  festival  was 
marred  by  the  silence  of  the  brother. 

May  came  and  went,  and  then  June.  Still  there  was 
no  letter  from  Simeon.  Aaron  was  beginning  to  lose 
hope  of  ever  hearing  from  his  brother.  He  determined 
to  write  to  the  secretary  of  the  London  group  once 
more.  He  would  wait  a  few  more  weeks  and  then 
he  would  write. 

Early  on  a  Sunday  morning  in  the  last  part  of  June, 
Aaron  emerged  from  the  barn  where  he  had  just  com 
pleted  his  morning  chores  and  was  heading  for  the 
house,  when  he  observed  a  middle-aged  Jew  of  small 
stature  and  sparing  dimensions  coming  up  the  street. 
The  man's  face  was  framed  by  a  short,  dark  beard. 


THE  LONG  LOST  BROTHER          47 

In  his  band  he  carried  a  grip,  and  he  walked  rather 
laboriously,  for  the  street  ran  uphill. 

Aaron  had  known  a  traveling  optician  who  had 
looked  very  much  like  this  man.  He  took  the  stranger 
to  be  an  out-of-town  pedler  who  was  going  to  some 
Jewish  family  he  knew  to  spend  the  Sunday  with  them. 
So  he  went  into  the  house. 

He  had  scarcely,  however,  had  time  to  take  off  his 
overalls,  when  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  The 
man  whom  he  had  seen  on  the  street  a  few  moments 
before  stepped  into  the  room  and  let  his  satchel  tumble 
to  the  floor.  Between  paroxysms  of  rapid  asthmatic 
breathing  the  stranger  asked  for  Aaron  Witkowski. 

"  I  am  Aaron  Witkowski  —  sit  down,  let  me  give 
you  a  glass  of  water  — " 

Aaron  started  to  go  after  water.  But  the  man 
caught  his  wrist  and  held  it  fast  until  the  spell  of  violent 
breathing  began  to  subside.  Then  he  gasped : 

"  I  —  I'm  Simeon." 


CHAPTER  IV 

SIBERIAN   ECHOES 

WHEN  the  wave  of  excitement  occasioned  by 
Simeon's  unexpected  arrival  had  subsided, 
Aaron  took  his  brother  for  a  stroll  in  the  fields.  He 
wanted  Simeon  all  to  himself  for  a  time,  to  listen  and 
talk  to  him  undisturbed.  They  spent  the  greater  part 
of  the  afternoon  —  of  the  first  afternoon  —  either 
sitting  in  the  shade  of  a  tree  along  the  quiet  country 
road,  or  walking  slowly,  in  accordance  with  the  dictates 
of  Simeon's  asthmatic  lungs. 

From  time  to  time  Aaron  gazed  at  his  brother  with 
unbelieving  eyes.  Of  course  twenty  years  had  elapsed 
since  he  had  seen  him,  and  Simeon  was  now  a  man  of 
forty.  None  the  less  Aaron  could  not  reconcile  him 
self  to  the  thought  that  Simeon  was  really  a  middle- 
aged  man.  He  had  somehow  preserved  him  in  his 
memory  as  a  boy.  The  picture  which  hung  on  the  wall 
in  his  parlor  had  helped  fix  that  impression. 

Simeon,  in  turn,  had  to  watch  himself  constantly 
against  addressing  Aaron  as  "  Father."  For  Aaron, 
except  for  the  fact  that  he  wore  a  short  American 
coat  instead  of  a  flowing  ghetto  gabardine,  was  a  pic 
ture  of  their  father  as  Simeon  had  seen  him  last. 

48 


SIBERIAN  ECHOES  49 

The  talk,  spasmodic  and  fragmentary,  was  mostly  by 
Simeon  and  ran  about  home,  their  Russian  home  from 
which  he  was  banished,  and  about  their  father.  Their 
mother  had  died  while  Simeon  was  still  in  Russia. 
Avoiding  Aaron's  gaze  Simeon  kept  on  plying  his 
brother  with  questions  about  their  father.  Who  was 
with  him  when  he  died?  And  what  did  he  say  in  his 
last  hours?  Was  he  angry  with  him,  Simeon?  Or 
had  he  forgotten  him  ?  And  where  was  he  buried  — 
anywhere  near  their  mother,  or  was  there  a  big  gap  be 
tween  his  and  her  grave  ?  Simeon  showed  a  surprising 
memory  with  regard  to  the  geography  of  the  cemetery 
of  their  native  town.  Aaron  described  to  him  minutely 
the  location  of  his  father's  grave. 

This  intensified  memory  of  his  about  scenes  and 
places  in  his  old  home  astounded  Aaron.  Simeon 
asked  about  the  playmates  of  his  childhood,  remember 
ing  the  name,  nickname  and  peculiarities  of  each.  A 
thousand  inconsequential  things,  which  Aaron  had  long 
forgotten,  were  as  fresh  in  his  brother's  mind  as  if 
they  had  happened  only  yesterday. 

As  Simeon  spoke  of  these  things  and  dwelt  on  half- 
forgotten  incidents  of  his  childhood,  Aaron  realized 
that  his  brother  must  have  thought  often  of  those 
scenes,  places  and  persons  in  the  many  years  of  his 
confinement  in  Siberian  fortresses.  .  .  .  He  felt  like 
taking  the  lean,  almost  puny,  body  of  his  younger 
brother  in  his  own  strong  arms —  In  spite  of  his 


50  WITTE  ARRIVES 

beard  Simeon  appeared  to  him  like  a  child  in  need  of 
kindness  and  protection.  .  .  . 

Wild  flowers  were  growing  along  the  road.  Simeon 
stretched  out  his  hand  to  pluck  one  of  them.  As  he 
did  so  his  wrist  came  out  from  under  the  cuff,  and 
Aaron  perceived  a  dark  reddish  circle  about  it.  He 
wondered  for  some  moments  where  Simeon  could  have 
got  such  an  ugly  scar.  He  scanned  their  childhood  and 
could  not  recall  any  such  accident  to  his  brother.  Then 
the  significance  of  the  scar  came  to  him  with  a  flash. 
The  Siberian  chains  the  poets  sang  about  were  not  mere 
phrases  —  they  were  real.  They  had  eaten  themselves 
into  the  flesh  of  his  brother.  Simeon  would  bear  the 
marks  of  these  chains  forever.  Aaron's  eyes  became 
full  and  hot.  He  lost  all  control  over  himself  and  be 
gan  to  sob.  .  .  . 

Simeon  thought  it  was  the  questions  about  their 
father,  which  he  had  asked,  that  had  so  unnerved  his 
brother.  He  began  to  mumble  in  broken  phrases, 
humbly,  apologetically. 

It  was  not  his  lack  of  love  or  loyalty  to  his  family 
that  had  caused  him  to  sadden  his  father's  old  age, 
Simeon  explained.  He  would  have  given  his  life  to 
have  saved  his  father  the  bitterness  of  his  last 
years.  .  .  .  But  he  could  not  act  otherwise.  ...  It 
was  a  holy  war  the  revolutionists  were  carrying  on  — 
a  war  for  the  freedom  of  their  county,  of  the  Russian 
people.  The  steppes  of  Siberia  were  strewn  with  the 


SIBERIAN  ECHOES  51 

bones  of  soldiers  of  freedom  like  himself.  .  .  .  For 
every  lonely  grave  of  a  revolutionist  in  the  Siberian 
steppes  a  father  was  mourning  and  a  mother  was  cry 
ing  her  eyes  out  and  wasting  her  life  away  — 

Simeon  became  animated.  Various  texts  from  the 
Talmud,  from  Hebrew  history  came  to  his  mind  —  a 
field  which  he  had  in  common  with  his  brother.  He 
summoned  these  historic  incidents  as  if  to  clear  him 
self  in  Aaron's  eyes. 

"What  of  the  Maccabees?"  he  asked.  "Were 
not  they  the  revolutionists  of  their  day?  Were  not 
the  ancient  Jewish  patriots  hunted  down  by  the  tyrants 
of  their  age  ?  Were  they  not  burned,  hanged,  crucified 
for  their  championship  of  the  cause  of  the  people  ? 

"  No  doubt  their  mothers  wept  their  eyes  out  for 
them.  ...  No  doubt  the  fathers  of  these  martyred 
saints  went  to  their  graves  before  their  time.  .  .  .  But 
such  is  history.  .  .  .  The  human  race  has  bought  every 
inch  of  freedom  with  the  blood  and  sacrifice  of  its 
young  sons  and  with  the  tears  of  its  old  men.  .  .  ." 

It  was  Aaron's  turn  to  talk  and  set  his  brother's  mind 
at  ease.  The  least  effort  at  speech,  however,  would 
have  precipitated  another  storm  of  tears.  He  put  his 
arm  about  Simeon's  shoulders  and  they  walked  in 
silence  toward  the  city,  for  the  sun  had  already  set. 
When  the  Witte  home  came  into  view  Emil  ran  to  meet 
them. 

In  the  weeks  that  followed,  Emil,  who  was  now 


52  WITTE  ARRIVES 

nearing  his  seventeenth  year,  became  the  inseparable 
companion  of  his  uncle.  Simeon  from  the  first  dis 
covered  a  strain  in  his  nephew  that  pleased  him. 

Uncle  and  nephew  often  talked  about  Russia. 
EmiFs  remembrance  of  the  "  old  country "  was  still 
vivid.  As  he  spoke  he  would  occasionally  drop  a 
phrase  rich  in  imagery.  With  such  a  phrase  as  a  cue 
Simeon  would  seek  to  pry  open  the  boy's  soul  — 

"  What  do  you  think  you  are  going  to  make  of 
yourself  here?  "  Simeon  once  asked. 

Emil  had  not  thought  of  his  future  yet.  That  set 
him  thinking. 

But  Simeon  was  not  solely  imparting  information. 
He  was  trying  to  gain  an  idea  about  the  United  States 
from  his  nephew.  He  made  Emil  tell  him  of  the 
American  schools,  of  the  aims  and  ideas  of  the  pupils, 
and  of  the  outlook  and  philosophy  of  their  teachers. 
His  questions  were  stimulating  and  kept  Emil's  mind 
on  the  alert. 

What  Emil  and  his  father,  in  fact  the  entire  Witte 
family,  wanted  to  know  most  was  the  story  of  Simeon's 
confinement  and  exile  in  Siberia.  Simeon,  however, 
always  managed  to  divert  such  questions.  He  spoke 
rarely  about  himself,  and  never  about  his  experiences. 
It  was  only  when  he  narrated  the  suffering  of  a  friend, 
the  agony  of  a  comrade  dying  in  a  mine,  that  they  got 
a  glimpse  of  what  he  had  gone  through —  He 
talked  about  Siberia  to  Emil  like  a  teacher  —  imper- 


SIBERIAN  ECHOES  53 

sonally.  He  often  used  the  Siberian  fortresses  he 
knew  as  a  pivot  about  which  he  revolved  the  history 
of  Russia.  He  explained  to  his  eagerly  listening 
nephew  the  significance  of  the  revolutionary  movement 
in  that  country  —  a  movement  which  sent  transport 
after  transport  of  prisoners,  made  up  of  the  best  blood 
and  brains  of  the  country,  to  the  remotest  Asiatic 
dungeons. 

And  just  as  when  speaking  to  his  brother  Aaron, 
Simeon  sought  to  bring  home  to  him  the  revolutionary 
movement  by  comparing  it  with  events  in  Jewish  his 
tory,  by  drawing  illustrations  from  Hebrew  lore,  so  in 
speaking  to  his  nephew  he  chose  examples  and  drew 
illustrations  from  ancient  and  American  history. 

Simeon's  talk  was  a  sort  of  running  comment  on 
history.  The  facts  which  Emil  had  studied  in  school 
assumed  a  different  meaning,  a  new  significance  after 
they  passed  through  the  welter  of  Simeon's  observa 
tions. 

To  Simeon  human  history  appeared  largely  as  a 
struggle  between  classes.  Most  concrete  form  this 
struggle  assumed  in  Greece  where  the  helots,  or  slaves, 
toiled  and  made  food  and  clothing  for  their  masters, 
while  the  latter  occupied  themselves  with  sport,  war 
and  learning.  The  conditions  which  prevailed  then  — 
one-half  of  the  people  in  a  country  toiling  until  their 
backs  broke,  and  the  other  half  living  in  ease  and  even 
idleness  —  these  conditions  still  prevail,  he  said. 


54  WITTE  ARRIVES 

The  Greeks  transmitted  this  system  of  exploitation 
to  the  Romans.  The  latter  perfected  the  system  of 
enslaving  the  poor  and  the  weak  with  a  series  of  mur 
derous  wars.  The  Romans,  after  conquering  their 
weaker  neighbors,  acquiring  their  lands  and  subjugat 
ing  their  peoples,  then  proceeded  to  build  up  a  system  of 
law  which  made  not  only  lawful,  but  fairly  sacred,  the 
possession  of  that  which  they  had  so  unjustly  acquired. 
That  was  how  the  institution  of  private  property  was 
born.  .  .  . 

In  his  talks  with  his  nephew  Simeon  often  delved 
into  history.  He  gave  the  youth  an  entirely  different 
view  of  the  growth  of  royal  families  and  monarchies 
than  that  given  by  his  teachers.  The  "  cunning  one," 
the  most  brutal,  merciless  conqueror,  became  the  king, 
Simeon  explained.  The  weaker  ones,  those  less 
"  cunning,"  were  made  the  vassals,  serfs,  slaves.  The 
revolutionists  of  all  ages  and  of  all  countries  were 
merely  trying  to  restore  to  the  oppressed  and  disin 
herited  masses  the  possessions  and  rights  of  which  they 
had  been  robbed  by  the  mighty  and  the  cunning. 

Little  by  little   Simeon  unfolded  the  theories  of 


Socialism  to  his  nephew. 


V  "  The  helot  of  Sparta,"  he  told  Emil  once,  "  and  the 
factory  worker  of  St.  Petersburg,  London,  Paris,  New 
York,  are  first  cousins.  There  is  a  degree  of  differ 
ence  in  the  dependence  of  each,  but  dependent  they  all 


SIBERIAN  ECHOES  55 

are.     Socialism  is  fighting  against  this  economic  de 
pendence. 

"  In  Russia,"  Simeon  continued,  "  the  struggle  of  the 
masses  is  doubly  complicated.  In  addition  to  their 
economic  enslavement  the  masses  there  are  held  in 
bondage  by  a  powerful  autocracy.  The  nihilists  in 
fighting  Czar  ism  are  merely  hoping  to  remove  one  of 
the  strongest  obstacles  in  the  way  of  the  greater  and 
principal  war  —  the  war  against  the  economic  and 
social  system  which  makes  the  bread  and  existence  of 
thousands  dependent  upon  the  whim  or  will  of  one 
man." 

As  they  were  sitting  once  at  the  edge  of  the  lake 
which  skirted  Spring  Water,  Simeon  said : 

"  In  America  you  don't  hear  much  about  Socialism^ 
yet,  but  you  will  before  long.  Yours  is  still  a  young 
country.  Your  resources  are  still  ample  and  afford 
every  one  a  comfortable  living  and  a  fairly  secure  old 
age,  even  under  the  iniquitous  system  of  private  prop 
erty.  But  a  time  will  come  when  the  present  oppor 
tunities  will  be  limited,  when  the  resources  will  be 
absorbed  by  a  few.  Your  land  will  be  grabbed  by 
'  cunning  men/  who  instead  of  becoming  political  kings 
will  become  economic  masters.  They  will  control  your 
industries  and  clip  the  wings  of  your  freedom  with  the 
sword  of  economic  supremacy. 

"  There  is  a  serenity  over  your  country  at  present," 


56  WITTE  ARRIVES 

Simeon  went  on,  "  which  has  something  healthy  and 
soothing  about  it.  There  is  a  liberal  spirit  in  your 
press  which  lifts  your  country  above  all  others.  But 
the  time  is  coming  when  your  masters  and  your  work 
men  will  draw  up  the  battle  lines  against  each  other 
—  Great  strikes  will  come  and  your  universal  se 
renity  will  evaporate.  You  will  have  your  '  classes  ' 
and  your  '  masses '  in  this  country  with  the  defenders 
of  the  one  and  the  champions  of  the  other.  .  .  . 

"  In  the  twentieth  century  your  dungeons  will  be 
filled  with  agitators,  with  champions  of  the  masses, 
just  as  the  Siberian  mines  and  prisons  were  filled  with 
Russian  nihilists  in  the  nineteenth.  .  .  ." 

Emil  listened  to  his  uncle's  discourse  attentively. 
Not  all  of  it  was  quite  clear  to  him.  But  Simeon  had 
warned  him  that  he  would  not  understand  it  all  —  yet. 
These  ideas  would  recur  to  him,  however,  he  said  as 
Emil  grew  older  and  gained  in  experience.  They 
would  go  over  into  convictions  that  would  exert  a  far- 
reaching  influence  over  his  life  and  his  future. 

It  had  grown  dark  in  the  meantime.  From  the  lake 
a  delightful  breeze  was  blowing.  Emil  was  looking 
straight  ahead  at  the  waters  through  which  the  moon 
had  cut  a  silvery  path.  Simeon  studied  his  face  in  the 
growing  mist. 

The  uncle  finally  broke  the  silence. 

"  You  will  write  about  these  things,"  he  said,  "  about 
these  very  struggles  between  the  masses  and  their  mas- 


SIBERIAN  ECHOES  57 

ters.  For  you  are  going  to  be  a  writer—  That,  I 
think,  is  your  calling  in  life." 

Emil  trembled  at  these  words.  A  faintness  over 
came  him.  He  felt  as  if  he  were  being  consecrated  to 
a  high  and  holy  office. 

Years  after,  when  Simeon  was  dead  and  Emil  was 
seeing  life  with  the  eyes  of  an  aggressive  American 
reporter  in  Chicago  and  New  York,  he  often  pondered 
over  the  words  uttered  by  his  uncle  on  that  summer 
evening  as  they  were  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  lake 
in  Spring  Water.  As  the  reporter  saw  mounted  police 
ride  into  crowds  of  strikers,  clubbing  and  injuring  the 
ragged,  desperate,  hungry  people  be  recalled  Simeon's 
prediction.  .  .  . 

And  the  humanity  for  which  his  uncle  had  gone  to 
Siberia  —  the  love  of  freedom  and  the  welfare  of  the 
masses  —  served  like  a  pillar  of  fire  to  the  young  re 
porter.  It  kept  his  heart  warm  and  his  faith  in  man 
intact.  It  kept  him  from  sinking  into  the  sloth  of 
cynicism  and  indifference  into  which  so  many  of  his 
co workers  fell,  and  from  which  they  sought  relief  in 
drink. 

In  the  latter  part  of  September  Simeon  announced 
that  he  would  leave  in  a  week.  Aaron  listened  with 
bowed  head,  but  no  longer,  tried  to  dissuade  his  brother. 
Simeon  had  made  it  clear  to  Aaron  soon  after  his 
arrival  in  Spring  Water  that  he  had  no  intention  of 
settling  in  America.  In  fact  there  was  no  settling  for 


58  WITTE  ARRIVES 

him  anywhere.  As  long  as  autocracy  held  sway  in 
Russia  there  was  work  for  him  to  do. 

Simeon's  course  was  mapped  out  for  him  by  the 
London  branch  of  his  revolutionary  group.  He  was 
ordered  to  go  to  New  York  and  organize  a  publication 
committee  from  among  the  Russian  exiles  there.  This 
committee  was  to  print  revolutionary  pamphlets  in  large 
quantities  for  Russia.  They  were  to  be  smuggled  into 
that  country  by  way  of  Switzerland. 

Aaron  spent  most  of  that  last  week  at  home  and 
tried  to  be  with  his  brother  as  much  as  possible.  While 
both  brothers  avoided  speaking  about  it,  each  felt  that 
this  was  the  last  they  would  see  of  each  other.  Emil 
divined  the  thoughts  of  his  father  and  Simeon.  Much 
as  he  wanted  to  be  near  his  uncle  in  these  last  days, 
he  withdrew  discreetly  every  time  he  found  his  father 
and  uncle  alone. 

The  evening  before  his  departure  Simeon  called  Emil 

into  his  room.     He  fumbled  in  his  valise  and  produced 

several   German  books  and  pamphlets,  among  them 

Uhe   Communist  Manifesto,   and   gave   them   to   his 

nephew. 

"  Your  German  is  still  weak,"  Simeon  said,  "  and 
you  will  not  be  able  to  read  and  understand  these  fully 
for  some  time.  But  keep  them.  You  will  find  them 
very  enlightening  when  you  get  older." 

After  a  prolonged  debate  with  himself  Aaron  finally 
asked  Simeon  a  question  which  opened  up  the  subject 


SIBERIAN  ECHOES  59 

that  both  had  painfully  avoided.  If  he  did  not  hear 
from  Simeon  for  a  long  time,  Aaron  wanted  to  know, 
where  could  he  write  to  inquire  about  him?  Was 
there  an  address  Simeon  could  leave  him  ? 

There  was  no  address  he  could  give  him,  Simeon 
said.  He  did  not  know  where  he  would  go  from  New 
York.  The  life  of  a  revolutionist  was  exceedingly  un 
certain.  Aaron  might  subscribe,  however,  for  Free 
Leaves,  the  organ  of  the  revolutionist  party  of  Russia 
published  in  London.  The  Free  Leaves  sometimes 
made  personal  mention  of  revolutionists.  At  any  rate 
it  always  gave  —  death  notices. 

Aaron  tugged  his  mustache  and  did  not  speak  for 
some  time. 

From  the  Free  Leaves  Aaron  learned  several  months 
later  that  his  brother  had  arrived  in  London. 

A  year  later  Aaron  Witte  was  sitting  one  Saturday 
afternoon  reading  the  papers  that  had  accumulated 
during  the  week.  He  missed  his  Free  Leaves  and  was 
about  to  ask  Masha  what  she  had  done  with  it  —  for 
Masha  was  now  reading  the  revolutionary  journal  as 
eagerly  as  her  husband  —  when  he  came  upon  a  copy  of 
the  paper  from  which  the  wrapper  had  not  yet  been 
torn.  He  broke  the  cover  of  the  little  magazine,  un 
folded  it.  On  the  front  page,  set  in  a  black  border, 
was  the  picture  of  his  brother.  .  .  . 

Inside  there  was  an  article  occupying  several  pages 
and  telling  the  story  of  his  brother's  life  in  Russia  and 


60  WITTE  ARRIVES 

in  Siberia  —  the  tragic  story  Aaron  was  craving  to 
know,  but  about  which  Simeon  had  been  silent. 
Simeon  had  died  in  Paris  after  a  brief  illness. 

With  the  death  of  Simeon  the  last  link  between  the 
Witte  family  and  the  old  world  was  broken.  The 
old  world  had  grown  strangely  distant —  America 
was  absorbing  the  attention  of  Emil  and  Aaron.  And 
even  Masha  thought  of  Russia  less  and  less.  ...  If 
she  longed  to  be  "  among  Jews,"  as  she  often  did,  her 
longing  was  confined  to  the  Jewish  centers  of  the  larger 
American  cities  and  not  of  the  old  world. 


CHAPTER  V 

CLARA   MARRIES 

IT  was  the  last  day  of  the  Passover  —  the  eightli 
Passover  the  Witte  family  had  observed  in  the  new 
world.  Aaron  and  Masha  were  sitting  by  the  open 
window  in  the  parlor,  looking  out  into  the  street  which 
swarmed  with  children  —  all  children  of  Jewish  immi 
grants.  There  were  now  between  forty  and  fifty/ 
Jewish  families  in  Spring  Water,  and  the  majority  of 
them  lived  in  Front  Street. 

It  was  a  beautiful  mid-April  afternoon.  A  restless 
breeze  was  blowing  through  the  open  window.  Such 
a  breeze  always  stirred  Mrs.  Witte's  heart.  A  tender 
melancholy  crept  into  it.  ...  There  were  streaks  of 
gray  about  her  temples  now.  The  eight  years  in 
America  had  greatly  aged  her.  It  was  not  material 
want  that  caused  her  to  fall  into  frequent  moods  of 
moroseness.  Aaron  made  a  fairly  comfortable  living. 
ft  It  was  spiritual  bareness.  She  missed  the  Jewish  at 
mosphere  of  the  old  world.  She  missed  the  synagogue 
of  her  home  town;  she  missed  the  rabbi,  the  cantor  and 
tiiQ  holidays.  .  .  .  Everything  here  appeared  to  her 
merely  as  make-believe.  What  did  the  Sabbath  mean 
when  half  of  her  own  family  desecrated  it  by  working 

61 


62  WITTE  ARRIVES 

that  day?  What  pleasure  could  there  be  in  a  holiday 
when  Harry,  her  eldest  born,  could  not  leave  the  store 
—  he  now  owned  a  clothing  store  in  a  town  fifteen 
miles  from  Spring  Water  —  to  be  with  them,  and  Emil 
was  in  school  all  day. 

The  religious  life  of  the  little  immigrant  community 
seemed  to  her  a  makeshift  at  best  And  to  a  large 
extent  her  view  was  justified.  A  hall,  which  served  as 
a  gathering  place  for  union  laborers,  was  turned  into  a 
house  of  prayer  every  holiday.  Just  as  the  place  was 
an  imitation  of  a  synagogue,  so  the  services  held  in  it 
were  imitations  of  real  services,  the  kind  she  was  ac 
customed  to  in  the  old  world.  The  prayers  were  cut 
Things  were  hurried —  She  knew  that  most  of  the 
men  would  leave  the  makeshift  house  of  prayer  to  go 
back  to  their  stores  and  shops  to  attend  to  business. 

Aaron  felt  these  things  as  keenly  as  his  wife,  but 
avoided  speaking  about  them.  What  was  the  use? 
Every  time  Masha  brought  up  the  subject  he  had  a 
mitigating  word  for  every  pharisaical  act.  It  was  not 
the  fault  of  the  people  altogether.  Necessity,  the  need 
of  earning  a  livelihood,  was  back  of  the  lack  of  piety 
and  reverence  for  things  that  are  holy. 

Like  her  husband  Masha  realized  their  utter  im- 
potency  to  change  things.  The  new  world  would  have 
its  way.  It  was  silly  to  fight.  It  was  not  cowardice 
to  submit  here.  She  realized  all  that.  Yet  while 
Aaron  adopted  a  philosophic  and  resigned  attitude, 


CLARA  MARRIES  63 

she   often   wept    in   silence   over   their   helplessness. 

A  trivial  incident  which  occurred  at  this  time  exer 
cised  a  profound  and  depressive  influence  upon  Mrs. 
Witte  and  left  a  scar  that  would  never  quite  heal.  She 
and  her  husband  were  out  for  a  stroll  one  Sabbath  after 
noon  when  suddenly  she  perceived  that  they  were  being 
followed  by  a  crowd  of  small  boys,  who  were  jeering 
and  shouting  after  them.  One  of  the  youngsters 
picked  up  a  stone  and  threw  it  at  her  husband.  Aaron 
dodged  the  stone  and  started  off  at  a  faster  pace, 
Masha  clinging  to  his  arm.  As  they  increased  their 
pace  the  youngsters  ran  after  them.  In  front  of  a 
saloon  a  young  man  with  two  rows  of  yellow  teeth, 
and  a  chin  bespattered  with  tobacco  juice,  shook  his 
fist  at  them  and  shouted  into  Aaron's  face: 
"  Sheeny ! "  Whereupon  there  arose  a  chorus  of 
laughter  and  guffaws  from  a  dozen  drunken  men  out 
side  the  saloon. 

When  they  finally  extricated  themselves  from  the 
annoying  crowd,  Aaron  without  looking  Masha  in  the 
face  began  in  his  usual  manner  to  mitigate  things. 
Children  grow  up  wild  in  the  new  world  —  have  no 
respect  for  older  persons.  They  are  not  really  bad  at 
heart,  just  badly  raised,  indifferently  brought  up  — ? 

Masha  was  blinded  with  tears  of  rage.  If  she  could 
only  speak  the  language  of  those  people!  She  would 
tell  them  who  the  man  they  were  casting  stones  at, 
who  her  husband  was!  She  would  tell  them  that 


64  WITTE  ARRIVES 

Aaron  could  match  in  scholarship  the  highest  men  of 
their  town,  that  he  would  have  been  a  rabbi  had  not  he 
put  her,  Masha,  above  a  career.  But  she  could  not 
speak  the  language  of  these  people  and  gritted  her 
teeth  in  silence.  .  .  . 

Some  time  after  this  incident  several  people  in  the 
neighborhood  sought  to  make  friends  with  Mrs.  Witte. 
One  of  these  women  spoke  German,  and  Masha  was 
glad  to  see  her  and  talk  to  her.  The  woman  invited 
her  to  join  a  neighborhood  club.  But  Masha  declined. 
The  insult  to  her  husband  by  the  children  of  the 
neighborhood  was  rankling  in  her  heart.  Several 
times  she  received  invitations  to  come  to  socials  held 
in  the  little  church  a  few  blocks  from  her  home,  but 
she  could  not  bring  herself  to  accept  them.  They  were 
not  for  her. 

She  felt  that  the  kindness  of  her  neighbors  was 
somehow  a  surface  kindness  only.  Beneath  the  sur 
face  they  were  strangers  to  each  other.  They  wor 
shiped  differently.  She  and  her  family  were  Jews. 
They  were  Christians.  The  things  she  worshiped 
were  meaningless  to  her  American  neighbors. 

For  a  long  time  Masha  and  her  husband  sat  silently 
looking  out  of  the  open  window.  A  sigh  which 
escaped  Masha's  breast  awakened  Aaron  from  his 
reveries.  Masha's  eyes  were  resting  on  him  with  a 
solicitous,  liquid  gaze. 


CLARA  MARRIES  65 

"  You  are  worrying  again,"  Aaron  said,  reproaching 
her  mildly. 

"  It  is  you  who  is  worrying  most,"  Masha  replied. 
"  You  have  not  been  looking  well  since  Simeon  left  — 
It  cannot  be  helped.  We  too  shall  die  —  We  are 
growing  old  — 

When  they  looked  up  after  a  lapse  of  silence  their 
eyes  met  in  complete  understanding.  They  were  think 
ing  the  same  thoughts. 

"  He  is  not  what  I  intended  for  Clara,"  Aaron  began. 
"  He  is  not  the  sort  of  a  man  I  want  for  my  son-in-law. 
I  had  hoped  that  Clara  would  marry  a  man  who  was 
somewhat  of  a  scholar,  who  knew  a  little  of  the  Tal 
mud  —  with  whom  I  could  talk,  discuss  things  occa 
sionally  — " 

In  the  next  moment,  however,  Aaron  was  again 
qualifying  his  own  words : 

"Of  course,  Alex  is  far  from  being  a  bad  match  for 
Clara.  He  is  a  business  man.  The  Rosens  know  his 
family  in  Chicago  —  fine  respectable  people  —  business 
men.  A  brother  of  his  owns  a  big  store  in  Omaha. 
Alex,  too,  will  not  clerk  long  at  the  Emporium.  He 
will  go  in  business  for  himself.  Clara  will  not  want 
anything  — " 

Alex  Stein,  the  subject  of  their  talk,  was  a  young 
man  of  twenty-five.  His  parents  came  to  Chicago 
from  Russia  when  he  was  a  child.  He  received  a  pub- 


66  WITTE  ARRIVES 

lie  school  education  and  from  his  fourteenth  year  tossed 
about  from  job  to  job  and  from  city  to  city.  The 
Emporium  department  store  of  Spring  Water  brought 
a  new  manager  from  Chicago.  The  manager,  Mr. 
Sidney  Siegel,  was  a  friend  of  the  Stein  family,  and 
Alex  drifted  into  Spring  Water  to  pay  him  a  visit. 
The  manager  just  then  needed  a  shoe  salesman  that 
was  more  energetic  than  the  easy-going  Mr.  Scott,  who 
had  been  holding  the  job  for  years,  and  he  offered 
young  Stein  the  place  at  a  much  larger  salary. 

"  But  I  know  nothing  about  the  shoe  business,"  Alex 
had  protested. 

"  Nonsense,"  said  the  manager,  "  you  know  how  to 
sell  —  that  is  all  that  is  necessary/' 

Alex  met  Clara  at  the  Emporium.  The  glove 
counter  where  she  worked  was  around  the  corner  from 
the  shoe  department.  He  fell  in  love  with  her. 

Alex  Stein  was  correctness  personified,  and  to  the 
superficial  observer  was  everything  one  could  desire  in 
a  young  man.  He  dressed  with  scrupulous  up-to-date 
ness,  was  rich  in  socks  and  neckties.  His  hair  was 
parted  in  the  center  and  stayed  parted  as  if  it  had  been 
glued  to  the  scalp.  He  perused  religiously  the  sporting 
page  of  a  Chicago  evening  paper  he  especially  sub 
scribed  for,  and  claimed  the  personal  acquaintance  of 
two  or  three  prize  fighters,  who  were  much  in  the  lime 
light  then. 

The  average  immigrant  in  Spring  Water  looked  upon 


CLARA  MARRIES  67 


Alex  Stein  with  great  respect,  for  to  this  immigrant 
Alex  stood  for  the  typical  American  boy  —  a  privileged 
child  of  free  institutions  and  democracy.  Alex  fur 
thered  this  reputation  by  addressing  every  one  in  Eng 
lish,  no  matter  whether  the  person  addressed  under 
stood  him  or  not.  When  an  answer  in  Yiddish  was 
necessary  he  replied  in  mutilated  phrases,  more  by 
design  than  through  his  actual  inability  to  speak  the 
language.  In  his  circle  it  was  considered  a  sign  of 
good  breeding  to  have  got  away  from  the  ancestral 
language  no  less  than  from  the  customs. 

Aaron  Witte  a  number  of  times  tried  to  draw  Alex, 
who  was  now  a  frequent  caller  at  the  Witte  home,  into 
a  conversation  on  matters  that  were  removed  from 
business,  on  some  of'the  broader  questions  of  the  day, 
the  social  and  humanitarian  movements  that  were  dis 
cussed  in  the  press,  especially  in  the  foreign  press, 
which  Witte  followed  closely.  Here  Alex,  in  spite  of 
his  being  an  "  American  boy,"  was  absolutely  helpless 
before  the  man  who  was  to  be  his  father-in-law.  Upon 
leaving  the  house  after  such  a  conversation  in  which 
Aaron  Witte,  of  course,  took  the  lead,  Alex  Stein  in 
variably  berated  Witte  to  himself  and  dismissed  him 
with  a  feeling  of  disgust,  dubbing  him  a  "  greenhorn/' 
Alex  knew  no  greater  expression  of  contempt  than 
that. 

Once  Witte  sounded  him  on  Jewish  history.  Alex 
looked  bewildered.  He  knew  nothing  of  the  questions 


68  WITTE  ARRIVES 

and  problems  that  interested  the  thinkers  and  the 
leaders  of  the  race.  His  views  on  religion  were  a 
mixture  of  ignorance  and  cynicism. 

Aaron  saw  that  there  would  be  no  mental  kinship 
between  himself  and  Alex.  Nevertheless  he  was  too 
good  a  young  man  to  turn  down.  Besides  this  was  not 
Europe.  Here  fathers  were  not  choosing  husbands 
for  their  daughters.  Clara  had  the  sole  say.  And  it 
was  an  easy  matter  for  this  young  man,  who  had  been 
through  every  large  city  in  the  United  States,  to  fasci 
nate  the  girl  whose  knowledge  of  America  did  not  ex 
tend  beyond  Spring  Water. 

That  very  evening  after  Masha's  and  Aaron's  talk 
Clara  confided  to  her  mother  that  Alex  Stein  had  pro 
posed  to  her. 

"  And  he  wants  me  to  be  a  June  bride,"  she  added, 
the  blood  mounting  to  her  face. 

Clara  was  a  June  bride,  but  it  was  in  the  last  part 
of  June  that  she  was  married.  This  date  was  chosen  in 
deference  to  Emil,  who  was  to  graduate  from  high 
school  on  the  nineteenth  of  the  month.  To  Aaron 
Witte  the  graduation  of  his  son  seemed  fully  as  im 
portant  an  event  as  the  marriage  of  his  daughter. 
Witte  loved  his  only  daughter  dearly,  but  the  joy  of 
the  occasion  was  secretly  blighted  for  him  by  what  he 
in  his  heart  designated  as  a  coarse,  loaferish  streak  in 
Alex  Stein's  nature. 

When  his  wife  showed  him  a  new  dress  which  the 


CLARA  MARRIES  69 

tailor  had  just  brought  for  Clara,  Aaron  sincerely  tried 
to  be  interested.  He  tried  to  rejoice  over  the  coming 
wedding  of  his  daughter.  But  his  heart  did  not  re 
spond.  His  mind  would  most  often  wander  in  these 
days  to  the  attic  where  Emil  was  seated  among  his 
books,  preparing  for  the  examination. 

Emil,  now  a  youth  of  eighteen,  was  pale  and  hag 
gard.  His  thin  frame  seemed  to  be  weighted  down 
with  worries.  The  work  did  not  come  hard  to  him. 
But  it  so  happened  that  his  lessons,  instead  of 
being  first  with  him,  were  last.  They  were  a 
sort  of  by-product  in  his  mental  scheme.  He  was 
more  interested  in  the  books  which  he  drew  from 
the  library  and  which  he  devoured  at  a  high  rate  of 
speed. 

The  books  he  was  reading  were  what  the  teacher 
would  call  out  of  his  line.  He  read  fiction,  history, 
philosophy.  Turgenev  reconstructed  Russia  to  him, 
the  Russia  which  was  beginning  to  fade  from  his  mem 
ory.  Carlyle  possessed  himself  of  his  imagination 
with  the  grandeur  and  horrors  of  the  French  revolu 
tion,  while  Buckle  was  making  clear  to  him  many  of  the 
things  which  his  Uncle  Simeon  spoke  about. 

Alex  Stein  had  barely  found  his  place  in  the  Witte 
household  when  he  began  taking  a  meddlesome  part  in 
its  affairs.  He  sought  to  impose  his  wishes  upon  every 
member  of  the  family,  to  direct  the  course  of  every  one 
and  everything.  For  the  time  being  he  singled  out 


70  WITTE  ARRIVES 

Emil.  It  began  over  the  question  of  the  course  Emil 
was  to  take  up  at  the  University. 

It  was  a  settled  thing  in  the  Witte  household  that 
Emil  would  go  to  the  University.  For  Aaron  Witte 
this  was  settled  two  years  before  when  his  brother 
Simeon  was  still  with  him. 

"  Emil,"  his  younger  brother  once  said  to  Aaron, 
"  is  quiet.  But  his  quietness  is  only  another  expres 
sion  for  character.  He  has  a  will  and  ability." 

Aaron  was  fully  awake  to  the  qualities  of  his  son. 
But  it  did  his  heart  good  to  hear  these  words  from 
Simeon's  lips. 

"  Boys,  men  of  the  type  and  character  of  Emil," 
Simeon  went  on,  "  are  frequently  misunderstood,  mis 
judged.  Most  people  can  only  see  power  when  it  is 
manifested  in  a  strong  arm,  athletic  physique,  or  daring 
feats.  But  there  is  another  sort  of  power  in  the  world, 
a  more  fruitful  power  frequently  —  the  power  which 
resists  passively  and  endures  patiently.  Emil  has  that 
power." 

As  to  what  course  he  would  take  neither  Emil  nor 
his  father  had  given  a  thought.  It  was  Alex  Stein 
who  broached  the  subject  in  a  conversation  a  week  after 
he  was  married. 

Emil  looked  up  as  if  he  were  awakened  from  a 
strange  world.  He  had  known  that  there  were  differ 
ent  courses  at  the  University.  He  had  looked  through 
the  catalogue  of  the  institution  carefully.  The  per- 


CLARA  MARRIES  71 

sonal  side  of  the  institution  appeared  to  him,  however, 
only  through  the  medium  of  Mr.  Sanborn,  his  Latin 
teacher. 

Sanborn  was  hated  most  cordially  by  the  students 
of  the  first  and  second  year  Latin  classes.  But  he 
appeared  more  human  in  Cicero.  As  for  Virgil,  the 
Roman  poet  positively  mellowed  the  Latin  teacher. 
Emil  in  his  senior  year  had  often  wondered  over  the 
remarkable  change  that  would  come  over  the  dried-up, 
lanky  Mr.  Sanborn  in  the  Virgil  class.  The  teacher 
here  deliberately  winked  at  grammar.  He  was  in 
different  to  syntax  and  just  read  the  Latin  poet  and 
enjoyed  him  and  made  the  pupils  enjoy  him. 

He  interspersed  his  readings  of  Virgil  to  the  class 
with  remarks  and  anecdotes  about  the  University,  about 
his  old  professor.  Sometimes  he  would  describe  the 
professor  to  his  class  —  the  old  bear,  he  called  him, 
but  how  he  knew  his  Latin ! 

Sanborn  occasionally  even  took  the  class  into  his  con 
fidence.  He  was  planning  to  return  to  the  University 
soon,  to  take  up  more  work  under  this  old  bear  of  a 
professor,  who  was  the  best  teacher  of  the  subject  in 
the  country.  He  was  planning  to  go  up  for  his  doctor's 
degree  in  another  year  or  two. 

So  it  came  about  that  Emil's  picture  of  the  Univer 
sity  was  confined  largely  to  a  genial  professor  who  was 
interpreting  Horace  and  Ovid  to  his  classes  with  re 
markable  picturesqueness.  In  his  mind  he  often  saw 


72  WITTE  ARRIVES 

himself  sitting  at  the  feet  of  this  man,  drinking  in  the 
ancient  poets  of  whom  he  was  fond. 

When  Alex  pressed  Emil  for  a  definite  answer  as  to 
what  course  he  was  going  to  take,  he  replied : 

"  The  classical  course." 

Alex  looked  puzzled. 

"  Will  that  make  you  a  doctor  ?  "  he  asked. 

"No/'  said  Emil  curtly.  He  did  not  like  his 
brother-in-law  overmuch. 

"  Well,  then  you  will  be  a  lawyer?  "  Alex  persisted. 
Emil  replied  that  the  classical  course  did  not  lead  to 
law. 

"  What  does  it  lead  to?  "  Alex  wanted  to  know. 

Emil  pondered  some  moments  as  if  weighing  in  his 
mind  whether  to  answer  his  brother-in-law  or  not. 
He  finally  said: 

"  It  leads  to  teaching,  for  one  thing.  Then  there  are 
other  things  — " 

What  these  "  other  things  "  were  that  the  classical 
course  led  to  Emil  himself  had  but  a  vague  idea. 

Alex  Stein  was  insistent  that  Emil  take  up  law.  He 
knew  a  Jewish  lawyer  in  Chicago,  he  said,  who  was  one 
of  the  leading  men  in  that  city.  That  was  the  sort  of 
a  man  he  would  like  to  see  Emil  become. 

This  solicitude  for  Emil's  career  on  the  part  of  his 
brother-in-law  was  not  a  matter  of  pure  disinterested 
ness.  Just  as  Alex  knew  a  Jew  who  was  a  big  lawyer 
and  an  influential  citizen  in  Chicago,  he  knew  also  a 


CLARA  MARRIES  73 

number  of  Jews  who  exerted  considerable  influence  in 
the  city  hall.  When  any  one  in  the  ghetto  was  in 
trouble  these  men  used  their  influence  with  the  judge, 
or  alderman,  or  somebody  in  authority.  This  fre 
quently  resulted  in  a  man's  being  saved  from  a  sentence 
in  jail  or  in  the  gaining  of  a  desired  concession. 

It  was  Alex  Stein's  ambition  to  become  just  such  an 
influential  Jew  in  Spring  Water,  to  be  an  important 
person  about  the  city  hall  and  in  the  city's  affairs. 
One  or  two  aldermen  already  knew  him  and  called  him 
by  his  first  name.  .  .  .  That  was  a  good  beginning. 
Now  if  Emil  only  took  up  law!  With  a  brother-in- 
law  a  lawyer  he  could  climb  much  faster  than  he  could 
single-handed.  .  .  . 

Emil  was  not  aware  of  these  designs  of  his  brother- 
in-law.  He  looked  upon  the  constant  harangues  of 
Alex  Stein  as  a  nuisance.  Aaron,  too,  took  a  hand  in 
the  matter.  He  did  not  see  that  teaching  was  not  as 
honorable  a  profession  as  law  or  medicine.  If  Emil 
wished  to  be  a  teacher,  if  he  was  inclined  that  way, 
why  should  any  one  interfere  with  his  inclinations? 

Stein  gave  up  trying  to  win  his  brother-in-law  over 
to  the  legal  profession.  His  dislike  for  Emil,  which  he 
conceived  the  first  day  they  met,  now  turned  into 
hatred.  But  he  was  too  much  of  a  diplomat  to  show 
it.  He  took  his  first  serious  defeat  in  the  Witte  house 
hold  gracefully,  but  mentally  charged  it  up  to  them  as 
a  thing  to  get  even  for  some  day  in  the  future. 


74  WITTE  ARRIVES 

Aaron  went  with  Emil  to  the  university  town.  He 
could  not  afford  to  let  him  stay  at  any  of  the  student 
dormitories.  So  he  took  him  to  the  house  of  a  coun 
tryman,  who  was  a  pedler  like  himself,  and  there  ar 
ranged  for  Emil's  room  and  board  at  a  much  cheaper 
rate  than  it  could  be  secured  at  a  students'  boarding- 
house. 


CHAPTER  VI 

COLLEGE  DAYS 

AMONG  the  requirements  of  the  course  in 
"  Sophomore  English  "  was  a  long  theme  to  be 
handed  in  by  the  middle  of  the  semester.  The  pro 
fessor  spoke  about  the  character  of  the  theme  cursorily 
on  the  first  class  day.  He  came  to  it  again  a  month 
later,  when  he  urged  the  class  to  start  working  on  it 
immediately  as  there  were  only  five  weeks  left  to  do 
it  in. 

The  theme  was  not  to  be  argumentative  in  nature. 
Nor  should  it  be  critical,  or  an  exposition  of  historical 
facts,  the  professor  advised.  The  ideal  theme,  he  ex 
plained,  would  be  a  story,  for  fiction  allows  room  for 
both  narration  and  description  —  the  two  hardest  as 
well  as  the  most  fundamental  elements  in  good  writing. 
For  weeks  the  students  talked  among  themselves  about 
the  theme,  wondering,  guessing  what  would  and  what 
would  not  be  a  good  subject.  Some  consulted  friends 
among  the  upper  classmen  to  get  their  experience  in 
the  matter. 

Emil  consulted  no  one,  spoke  to  no  one.  He  was 
not  a  popular  man  among  his  classmates.  About  the 
campus  few  knew  him  by  sight,  fewer  to  talk  to.  He 

75 


76  WITTE  ARRIVES 

did  not  keep  aloof  from  the  students,  but  he  kept  away. 
There  were  good  reasons  for  this.  The  family  of  the 
pedler  with  whom  he  boarded  lived  in  the  poorest  dis 
trict  of  the  city,  near  the  railroads.  There  was  a 
pedler's  cart  in  the  rear  of  every  house.  Scrap  iron 
and  bottles  lay  piled  in  every  yard.  There  were  men 
with  beards  and  women  in  wigs  walking  up  and  down 
the  street,  talking  excitedly  in  Yiddish,  gesticulating. 

He  was  not  ashamed  of  these  surroundings.  He 
was  not  in  the  least  annoyed  by  them.  Behind  the 
pedler's  cart,  he  knew,  there  was  often  a  man  with 
ideals  and  a  high  education.  Many  of  his  country 
men  took  to  the  pedler's  cart,  to  the  junk  wagon,  be 
cause  it  most  often  was  the  only  thing  they  could  turn 
to.  They  were  in  a  strange  land  of  whose  language 
and  customs  they  were  ignorant.  Centuries  of  re 
striction  and  oppression  in  the  ghettos  of  the  old  world 
had  weakened  them  to  an  extent  that  made  it  impossi 
ble  for  many  of  them  to  take  to  the  pick  and  shovel. 

Emil  knew,  however,  that  these  things,  while  fully 
understood  by  him,  would  not  be  understood,  at  least 
not  readily,  by  an  outsider.  To  mingle  with  the 
student  body,  to  go  up  to  a  student's  room,  meant  in 
viting  him  in  turn  to  his  own  room.  If  he  invited  a 
student  friend  to  his  room  in  the  little  ghetto,  there 
would  be  too  many  explanations  to  make,  he  feared. 
The  student  might  have  a  laugh  at  Emil's  surround 
ings,  and  then  transfer  the  laugh  to  Emil  himself.  He 


COLLEGE  DAYS  77 

had  seen  such  things  happen.  So  he  avoided  the  like 
lihood  of  having  to  invite  friends  by  not  accepting  in 
vitations  from  them,  by  keeping  away  from  the  social 
life  of  the  university. 

As  was  the  case  with  all  of  Emil's  work,  he  post 
poned  the  theme  until  the  last  week.  Meantime 
hardly  a  recitation  passed  without  one  or  more  students 
asking  the  professor  whether  this  or  that  would  be  an 
acceptable  subject.  Emil  listened  to  these  discussions. 

The  Sunday  of  the  week  when  the  theme  was  to 
be  handed  in  he  rose  early  and  by  noon  had  written 
the  required  twenty-five  hundred  word  story.  He 
copied  it  on  an  afternoon  when  his  work  for  the  next 
day  was  light  and  deposited  it  on  the  professor's  desk 
as  he  left  the  classroom. 

The  professor  kept  these  themes  for  three  weeks,  in 
spite  of  the  impatience  of  the  students.  He  had  about 
one  hundred  and  fifty  of  such  themes  to  read,  correct 
and  criticize.  Finally  he  announced  one  morning  that 
the  entire  recitation  hour  would  be  devoted  to  a  dis 
cussion  of  the  compositions.  For  this  purpose  he  had 
chosen  several  papers  to  read  from. 

He  picked  out  parts  of  five  or  six  themes  and  read 
them,  some  for  their  merit,  others  because  they  were 
decidedly  bad.  He  went  over  these  quotations,  criti 
cizing,  praising,  suggesting  where  and  how  such  and 
such  a  passage  could  be  improved. 

One  paper  he  was  going  to  read  in  its  entirety,  the 


78  WITTE  ARRIVES 

professor  said,  because  of  its  unusual  merit.  The 
theme  gave  evidence  of  a  literary  gift.  It  was  —  he 
hesitated  a  moment  —  this  theme  was  in  itself  a  piece 
of  literature. 

As  he  spoke  the  professor  looked  away  impersonally 
at  the  wall  as  if  not  wishing  to  let  his  gaze  betray  the 
writer  of  the  theme  to  the  shifting  eyes  of  the  class. 
Amid  deep  silence  he  began  reading. 

The  first  few  words  of  the  theme  were  familiar  to 
Emil  Witte.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  heard  them 
somewhere  before.  He  leaned  forward  in  his  chair  to 
hear  better  and  in  the  next  instant  he  realized  that  it 
was  his  own  theme  that  was  being  read.  He  became 
hot  all  over.  Covering  his  eyes  with  his  hand  he  re 
mained  motionless  in  his  seat  throughout  the  reading 
of  the  paper. 

After  the  themes  had  been  distributed  and  the  class 
was  filing  out,  several  students  stopped  to  talk  to  the 
professor.  Witte  made  his  way  toward  the  door. 
The  professor  asked  him  to  remain  a  few  moments. 

When  the  last  student  had  been  dismissed,  the  pro 
fessor  walked  down  the  hall  with  Witte  to  his  own 
office,  complimenting  him  once  more  on  his  theme. 
He  wound  up  his  compliments  with  an  invitation  to 
call  on  him  at  his  house.  In  order  to  make  sure  of 
Witte's  calling,  the  professor  set  the  date  himself. 
This  was  tantamount  to  an  order  for  Emil  to 
come.  , 


COLLEGE  DAYS  79 

Emil  went  straight  to  the  library,  sought  out  an 
empty  table,  piled  several  large  books  in  front  of  him 
so  as  to  hide  the  right  to  left  movements  of  his  pen, 
and  sat  down  to  write  to  his  father  in  Yiddish  —  the 
Yiddish  he  had  learned  in  the  Russian  ghetto  before 
coming  to  America.  It  was  a  nervous,  exalted  let 
ter.  .  .  .  When  Aaron  read  it  to  his  wife,  tears  came 
into  Masha's  eyes.  Aaron's  voice,  too,  faltered,  and 
he  had  to  stop  several  times  to  clear  his  throat. 
Father  and  mother  were  intensely  happy  and  intensely 
proud  of  their  son  in  whom  big  men,  professors,  took 
such  an  interest. 

A  year  passed. 

Easter  and  Passover  fell  in  the  same  week.  Emil 
came  home  for  the  holidays.  Harry,  the  eldest  son, 
now  married  and  the  father  of  a  child,  was  there  with 
his  family  for  the  festival.  Clara  came  with  her  hus 
band  and  their  two  children.  Alex  Stein  had  not  for 
given  Emil  what  he  considered  the  latter's  stubborn 
ness  in  not  taking  up  law.  But  he  tactfully  forgot  his 
grudge  for  the  evening. 

Aaron,  whose  beard  was  now  gray,  solemnized 
Passover  with  impressive  ceremony.  As  he  was  re 
citing  the  story  of  the  delivery  of  the  children  of 
Israel  from  Egyptian  bondage  in  the  quaint  medieval 
sing-song,  Emil  went  back  in  his  mind  sixteen  years, 
when  as  a  child  of  five  he  sat  with  Harry  and  Clara 
about  a  table  similarly  spread  in  their  thatched  cot- 


80  WITTE  ARRIVES 

tage   in   Russia.     What   a   change  those  years   had 
brought ! 

Then  his  father's  beard  was  black,  his  features  firm. 
There  were  none  of  the  deep  lines  that  furrowed 
Aaron's  face  now.  His  voice,  as  he  recited  the  story 
of  Israel's  escape  from  slavery,  sounded  different  then. 
It  was  stronger,  more  triumphant.  There  was  not  the 
occasional  lisp  that  now  tore  itself  from  Aaron's  lips. 
Emil  noted  —  and  this  sent  a  pang  through  his  heart 
—  that  since  he  had  last  seen  his  father,  the  latter  had 
lost  a  lower  front  tooth.  .  .  .  Aaron  was  aging,  un 
mistakably. 

When  Aaron  finished  reciting  the  story  of  Israel's 
freedom  and  took  off  the  white,  shroud-like  garment 
which  he  wore  all  through  the  ceremony,  the  atmos 
phere  changed  to  one  of  merriment.  They  ate,  and 
drank  wine,  the  four  prescribed  glasses  that  are  to  be 
drunk  on  the  occasion,  and  the  hearts  of  all  became 
light.  Masha  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  her 
children,  busied  herself  about  her  three  grand 
children,  and  her  cup  of  happiness  was  full  — 

When  Emil  found  himself  alone  in  his  room,  how 
ever,  he  could  not  fall  asleep.  The  missing  front 
tooth  which  so  greatly  altered  his  father's  voice, 
fastened  itself  in  his  brain.  He  could  not  shake  it 
out  of  his  thoughts.  Age  was  overtaking  his  father 
and  mother.  And  the  natural  corollary  of  age  was 
death —  There  was  no  getting  away  from  both  of 


COLLEGE  DAYS  81 

these —  He  began  figuring  the  age  of  his  parents. 
Both  Aaron  and  Masha  were  past  fifty.  At  sixty  one 
was  really  old —  He  pulled  the  blanket  over  his 
head,  closed  his  eyes  and  tried  not  to  think  — 

In  the  morning  Emil  took  a  stroll  through  the 
streets  of  Spring  Water.  The  town  was  just  awaken 
ing  from  its  winter's  sleep.  The  sparse  grass  on  the 
lawns  had  an  embarrassed  look  as  if  it  were  not  at  all 
certain  that  it  had  not  come  out  a  trifle  too  early. 
The  lake,  which  skirted  the  town,  always  had  a  fasci 
nation  for  Emil.  He  could  sit  at  the  edge  of  the  water 
for  hours  and  listen  to  the  beating  of  the  waves.  Un 
consciously  he  walked  in  the  direction  of  the  water. 

Alongside  the  lake  lay  the  residential  part  of  Spring 
Water.  The  streets  were  wide,  the  houses  large, 
roomy,  and  far  apart.  Every  home  here  had  a  wide 
lawn,  big  verandas  and  an  air  of  security  and  well- 
being. 

As  Emil  passed  one  of  these  spacious  homes  he 
heard  some  one  call  his  name.  A  woman  was  run 
ning  down  the  steps  of  one  of  these  houses.  She  was 
running  toward  him.  He  recognized  Lena  Rosen. 

As  if  through  a  mist  he  recalled  some  one's  telling 
of  the  Rosen  boys'  opening  recently  a  new  store  in 
Spring  Water  and  of  the  Rosen  family's  moving  into 
the  exclusive  part  of  the  city. 

"  I  hardly  recognized  you  at  first,"  said  Emil,  con 
fused.  Though  he  had  seen  Lena  many  times  before, 


82  WITTE  ARRIVES 

his  recollection  of  her  now  was  that  of  a  little  girl 
who  talked  to  him  on  the  first  day  of  his  arrival,  and 
who  later  took  him  to  school  and  introduced  him  to  the 
kindly,  smiling  woman  teacher.  He  compared  the 
picture  of  the  child  with  the  black  curls  with  the  young 
lady  who  stood  beaming  at  him,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
as  if  Lena's  long  dresses  and  womanly  manners  were 
only  a  pose  and  that  soon  she  would  reappear  again 
in  her  real  self,  the  little  girl  with  curls,  asking  him 
whether  he  could  add  and  subtract. 

He  followed  her  into  the  house.  Mrs.  Rosen,  who 
had  been  gaining  in  corpulency  out  of  all  proportion 
since  Emil  last  saw  her,  began  hopping  about  him,  re 
peating  excitedly  all  the  while:  "Ah,  what  a  guest, 
what  a  guest ! " 

"  Abe,"  Mrs.  Rosen,  protruding  her  head  through 
the  heavy  Persian  portieres,  addressed  her  husband, 
"guess  who  is  here,  Abe?" 

Mr.  Rosen  did  not  guess,  but  walked  right  into  the 
parlor  and  was  face  to  face  with  young  Witte,  who 
was  still  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  He 
caught  Emil's  hand  and  shook  it  heartily.  He  looked 
him  over  in  a  fatherly  manner,  tapped  him  on  the 
shoulder  as  if  to  signify  that  everything  was  all  right, 
and  puffing  heavily  —  for  Mr.  Rosen,  too,  was  grow 
ing  stout  —  started  to  pull  a  Morris  chair  toward  his 
guest. 

When  Emil  was  seated  Rosen  began  to  entertain 


COLLEGE  DAYS  83 

him  in  his  own  fashion,  which  consisted  of  question 
ing  the  youth  minutely. 

Was  Emil  going  to  be  a  doctor  ?  No  ?  Well,  then, 
Mr.  Rosen  supposed  that  he  would  be  a  lawyer.  But 
when  this  supposition  also  proved  wrong,  Mr.  Rosen's 
curiosity  was  aroused  in  earnest.  If  not  medicine  or 
law,  what  could  one  go  to  the  University  for  —  what 
else  was  there? 

Emil  began  feeling  uncomfortable  under  this  rapid 
fire  of  questions  which  followed  his  monosyllabic 
answers.  Lena  noticed  this  and  was  attempting  to 
explain  to  her  father  that  there  were  other  branches 
of  knowledge  taught  at  a  university  besides  medicine 
and  the  law,  when  Mrs.  Rosen  entered  the  room,  a 
carafe  in  one  hand  and  a  well-stocked  plate  in  the 
other.  This  ended  the  discussion. 

As  Emil  was  leaving,  after  having  promised  Mrs. 
Rosen  that  he  would  not  "  act  like  a  stranger,"  and 
would  come  to  visit  them  often  during  the  holidays, 
Lena  slipped  on  her  coat  and  went  out  with  him. 

They  walked  toward  the  lake.  Now  Lena  was 
showering  questions  upon  Emil.  But  her  questions 
were  so  different.  Emil  not  only  answered  them,  but 
he  soon  found  himself  talking  to  her  as  he  had  never 
spoken  to  a  stranger  before.  ...  It  even  seemed  to 
him  that  Lena  was  no  stranger,  but  was  something 
like  a  sister  of  his,  somebody  very  near  to  him.  .  .  . 
Why  should  not  he  feel  so  toward  her?  She  was  the 


84  WITTE  ARRIVES 

one  who  had  unlocked  the  gates  of  the  new  world  to 
him.  She  had  led  him  to  school  for  the  first  time. 

He  recalled  that  episode  of  their  childhood.  Lena 
laughed. 

"  And  now,"  Emil  said,  and  the  words  seemed  to 
linger  in  his  throat,  "  now  you  are  a  big  girl  —  a 
young  lady." 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  her  in  admiration.  A 
light  flush  came  into  Lena's  cheeks. 

"What  about  yourself?"  she  retorted  laughingly. 
"  You,  too,  are  a  big  boy  —  a  man  now.  ...  I  sup 
pose  you  are  in  love  already/'  she  added  after  a 
moment,  with  a  roguish  twinkle  in  her  eye. 

Emil  turned  his  face  from  her.  A  weak  smile 
played  about  his  lips.  He  wanted  to  say  some 
thing  equally  clever  and  daring,  but  could  find  no 
words.  .  .  .  They  reached  the  lake.  He  picked  up  a 
handful  of  pebbles  and  was  throwing  them  in  the 
water.  As  he  did  this  the  ungainliness  of  his  frame, 
his  physical  shortcomings  came  into  view.  The  Rus 
sian  Pale  had  put  her  stamp  upon  his  physique.  She 
had  marked  him  as  her  own. 

Emil  was  slightly  below  medium  height.  His 
shoulders  were  a  trifle  stooped,  his  chest  caved  in.  It 
was  quite  evident  that  he  paid  little  attention  to  physi 
cal  training  and  was  a  total  stranger  to  athletics. 

Lena  quickly  shifted  her  gaze  from  his  body  to  his 
face  and  head.  Vaguely  she  felt  that  it  was  by  his 


COLLEGE  DAYS  85 

face  and  head  that  Emil  would  be  judged.  It  was  his 
face,  and  especially  his  head  that  made  him  attractive. 

She  began  talking  about  his  work,  asking  what  his 
plans  were  on  graduation.  He  would  be  a  senior  in 
the  fall. 

A  deep  earnestness  settled  over  Emil's  face.  He 
was  debating  with  himself  whether  to  answer  her  ques 
tion,  whether  to  initiate  the  girl  into  his  cherished 
ambitions.  Lena,  however,  was  looking  at  him  so 
expectantly,  patiently  and  so  full  of  faith,  that  he  did 
not  see  what  harm  there  could  be  in  telling  her  his 
plans. 

"  I  intend  to  teach,"  he  said  simply,  "  and  then 
write  —  on  the  side.  Many  men  have  done  this." 

"  You  intend  to  be  a  writer?  "  Lena  said,  forgetting 
about  his  teaching.  She  had  not  the  slightest  intima 
tion  before  that  this  was  Emil's  ambition.  But  the 
way  he  looked  as  he  spoke  of  writing  convinced  her 
that  that  was  exactly  what  Emil  should  do. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  gazing  far  out  on  the  water. 

"  Have  you  written  things  already  ?  " 

"  Hardly  anything." 

"  Poetry  ?  Have  you  written  any  verses  ?  "  she  per 
sisted. 

"  Only  a  few." 

The  atmosphere  which  was  mild  a  few  minutes 
before  suddenly  became  brisk.  The  tips  of  Lena's 
gloveless  fingers  began  to  numb.  She  started  away 


86  WITTE  ARRIVES 

from  the  lake.  When  they  reached  the  corner  where 
she  was  to  turn  off  to  the  house,  she  shook  hands  with 
Emil,  exacting  a  promise  from  him  that  he  would  come 
to  see  them  the  next  day.  Her  brothers  would  surely 
like  to  see  him.  And  she  was  anxious  to  talk  to  him 
about  the  University  —  she  would  like  to  go  to  the 
University  herself.  She  was  to  graduate  from  high 
school  in  June.  Emil  called  at  the  Rosen  home  the 
next  day  and  the  evening  before  he  left. 

When  he  was  back  again  at  the  University  Emil 
sent  Lena  a  postal  card  giving  a  view  of  some  of  the 
college  buildings.  He  received  in  reply  a  long  letter, 
written  on  scented  paper.  He  did  not  know  how  to 
answer  it  and  postponed  writing  to  her  from  day  to 
day.  Then  the  examinations  were  nearing  and  he  had 
little  time  to  write  —  at  least  that  was  what  he  told 
himself  every  time  he  thought  of  the  unanswered 
letter. 

About  two  weeks  before  the  close  of  the  semester 
another  letter  came.  Lena  attributed  his  not  answer 
ing  her  note  to  his  preparing  for  the  examinations. 
She  knew  what  that  meant.  Then  she  mentioned  see 
ing  him  as  soon  as  he  came  home  for  his  vacation. 
She  was  anxious  to  see  him,  she  wrote.  There  were 
so  many  things  she  wanted  to  talk  over  with  him. 
She  hoped  that  they  would  see  much  of  each  other 
during  the  summer  and  talk  over  everything  —  every 
thing,  for  Emil  knew  so  much,  and  understood  every- 


COLLEGE  DAYS  87 

thing  so  much  better  than  the  people  in  Spring  Water, 
the  people  around  her  — 

Emil  spent  an  uneasy  night  after  reading  the  letter. 
It  crowded  all  else  out  of  his  mind  and  Lena  stood 
before  his  eyes.  In  fact  there  were  hovering  before 
him  two  Lenas:  one  a  girl  of  eight  with  black  curls, 
who  spoke  in  broken  Yiddish  and  led  him,  a  green 
ghetto  boy,  to  school;  the  other,  a  young  lady  who 
wrote  on  scented  paper  —  who  waited  for  him  to  come, 
to  talk  to  him,  to  confide  in  him.  .  .  . 

He  lay  awake  for  hours  thinking  of  the  girl,  recall 
ing  her  voice,  eyes,  hair.  ...  He  would  write  to  her 
in  the  morning  —  the  first  thing. 

Sleep  finally  overcame  him,  but  Lena  remained  with 
him  in  his  dreams.  .  .  . 

When  Emil  stepped  off  the  train  in  Spring  Water, 
full  of  eager  anticipations  for  his  vacation,  he  was 
met  by  his  father  who  looked  blanched  and  greatly 
worried. 

In  a  few  words  Aaron  apprised  him  that  Harry  had 
been  stricken  with  typhoid  for  more  than  a  week.  He 
had  kept  it  from  Emil,  his  father  explained,  because 
he  did  not  wish  to  worry  him  during  the  exami 
nations. 

The  next  morning  Emil  took  the  train  for  the  little 
town  where  Harry  lived  and  there  stepped  into  his 
sick  brother's  place  in  the  store.  By  the  time  Harry 


88  WITTE  ARRIVES 

recovered  sufficiently  to  be  able  to  tend  to  business 
once  more,  the  vacation  season  was  over.  Emil  had 
barely  time  to  snatch  three  days'  rest  and  went  back 
to  the  University.  He  saw  nothing  of  Lena  that 

summer. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A   REPORTER 

MR.  RAND,  the  city  editor  of  the  N- 
Express,  ran  his  eyes  over  the  letter  of  intro 
duction  handed  him  by  Emil  Witte  and  put  it  to  one 
side  with  an  air  of  extreme  weariness.  Emil,  watch 
ing  the  city  editor's  every  move,  concluded  that  he 
must  be  at  least  the  tenth  man  who  had  come  to  ask 
for  a  job  that  morning,  each  of  whom  had  presented 
just  such  a  letter  of  introduction  as  his,  and  that  these 
letters  and  their  bearers  were  the  bane  of  Rand's 
existence. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  a  reporter  had  left  the  Express 
the  preceding  week.  The  vacancy  had  not  been  filled, 
and  Rand  was  glad  to  see  a  man  drift  in  and  ask  for 
a  job. 

Still  maintaining  his  air  of  boredom,  however,  the 
city  editor  said: 

"  There  is  no  opening  on  the  staff  right  now  — " 

The  ringing  of  the  telephone  interrupted  him. 
When  Rand  had  hung  up  the  receiver,  he  again  turned 
to  Emil  Witte  with  a  seemingly  absent,  but  in  reality 
searching  gaze.  He  picked  up  the  letter  of  introduo 

89 


go  WITTE  ARRIVES 

tion  once  more  —  it  was  from  an  influential  lawyer 
who  had  taken  an  interest  in  young  Witte  —  and  read 
it  clear  through. 

"  You  speak  several  languages?"  Rand  asked. 

Emil  nodded  affirmatively. 

"  As  I  said,"  continued  the  editor,  "  there  is  no 
opening  on  the  staff  right  now.  However,  this  is  a 
metropolitan  city,  and  a  man  who  speaks  a  number  of 
languages  ought  to  be  useful.  Come  in  again  next 
Thursday.  Perhaps  something  will  turn  up  in  the 
meantime." 

Nothing  had  turned  up  by  Thursday,  but  Witte  was 
told  to  come  in  again  at  one  o'clock  the  following  day. 
He  came  and  Rand  motioned  to  him  to  sit  down  near 
one  of  the  desks.  With  this  Rand  apparently  forgot 
him.  At  five  o'clock  the  city  editor  crooked  his  finger 
at  Witte  and  the  latter  came  up  to  his  desk  at  a  run. 

"  Go  out  and  talk  with  the  woman,"  Rand  said, 
handing  him  a  clipping  from  an  evening  paper. 

Witte  wrote  the  interview  and  laid  the  copy  on  the 
city  editor's  desk.  He  was  again  forgotten  until 
nearly  midnight.  Then  Rand  in  passing  told  him  to 
go  home,  adding,  "  One  o'clock  to-morrow." 

Emil  Witte  had  secured  his  first  job. 

Every  beginner  on  the  Express  was  started  in  with 

the  "  labor  run."  N •  was  a  city  of  a  quarter  of 

a  million  people.  It  was  one  of  the  growing  manu 
facturing  centers  in  the  Middle  West.  There  were 


A  REPORTER  91 

about  two  score  labor  unions  in  the  city.  The  news 
of  these  unions  was  printed  every  morning  on  the 
tenth  or  eleventh  page  of  the  Express  under  the  head 
ing  "  In  the  Labor  World." 

The  following  Monday  Rand  gave  Witte  a  slip  of 
paper  with  half  a  dozen  addresses  of  the  principal 
unions  and  briefly  explained  what  was  expected  of  him 
on  the  labor  run. 

"  You  will  pick  up  the  names  of  the  other  unions  as 
you  go  along,"  Rand  said.  "  To-day  be  sure  to  look 
up  the  iron  molders.  Talk  to  their  business  agent, 
Weber.  The  molders  have  been  threatening  to  strike. 
See  what  you  can  get  on  it." 

On  the  way  to  the  headquarters  of  the  molders,  Emil 
studied  the  third  of  a  column  of  labor  news  in  the 
Express.  Much  of  it  sounded  strange.  The  phrases, 
"  closed  shop,"  "  open  shop,"  "  boycott,"  "  lockout  " 
were  new  to  him. 

"  What  became  of  Cochrane,  was  he  fired?  "  Weber 
asked  when  Witte  introduced  himself  as  the  new  re 
porter  from  the  Express. 

Witte  did  not  know  Cochrane,  did  not  know  who 
his  predecessor  was.  The  good-natured,  bantering 
way  in  which  Weber  asked  the  question  reassured  him. 
The  agent  seemed  to  be  a  good  sort  of  fellow.  He 
was  kind  and  genial  at  any  rate.  So  Witte  threw  him 
self  at  the  mercy  of  the  business  agent.  He  told  him 
that  he  was  just  beginning  his  career  as  a  reporter, 


92  WITTE  ARRIVES 

that  he  had  been  on  the  Express  only  three  days  and  in 

the  city  of  N only  a  week.  He  would  appreciate 

it,  therefore,  if  Mr.  Weber,  would  give  him  all  the 
news  there  was.  He  would  be  especially  grateful  if 
the  business  agent  would  give  him  the  news  as  plainly 
as  possible  so  that  he  could  write  it  down  correctly  for 
the  paper. 

Weber  listened  to  the  frank  statement  of  the 
embryo  reporter. 

"You  want  to  write  labor  news  correctly?"  the 
business  agent  said  with  a  wry  smile.  "  All  right,  my 
boy,  go  ahead,  try.  The  Lord  help  you.  You  will 
need  His  help  if  you  are  to  get  union  news  into  the 
Express  correctly.  But  I  am  afraid  even  the  Lord 
cannot  protect  you  from  your  city  editor's  blue  pencil." 

While  Witte  was  pondering  over  Weber's  words, 
the  business  agent  was  studying  the  reporter  curiously. 
Witte  was  so  different  from  his  predecessor.  He  was 
simple  and  unsophisticated  in  the  city  ways. 

"Is  your  father  a  workman?"  the  labor  man 
asked. 

Witte  nodded,  and  he  felt  the  blood  come  into  his 
face.  Suppose  the  business  agent  asked  his  father's 
trade?  But  Weber  did  not  ask. 

Weber  supplied  the  reporter  with  the  names  of  a 
number  of  unions  whose  headquarters  were  in  the 
neighborhood  and  advised  him  what  men  were  worth 
while  seeing  in  each  of  these  unions.  As  for  the 


A  REPORTER  93 

molders,  there  was  no  news  that  day,  he  said.  As 
Witte  was  about  to  leave,  Weber  added  as  an  after 
thought  : 

"  You  might  say  that  the  molders  are  firm  in  their 
demands,  and  if  the  negotiations  now  pending  with  the 
employers  come  to  no  satisfactory  conclusion,  nothing 
can  avert  a  strike." 

Witte  wrote  down  the  statement  word  for  word. 

Weber  watched  the  reporter  not  unkindly.  To  an 
experienced  newspaper  man  he  would  not  have  said 
that  much.  He  would  have  taken  for  granted  that  the 
reporter  would  have  gathered  the  attitude  of  the 
molders'  union  indirectly.  Witte's  frank  admission 
of  his  inexperience  had  moved  him  to  this  indulgence. 

When  Witte  read  off  to  the  city  editor  the  brief 
statement  of  the  business  agent,  Rand  grunted.  Witte 
could  not  make  out  whether  it  meant  approval  or  dis 
approval. 

"  Roscoe ! "  Rand  called  across  the  room.  A  re 
porter  at  the  farther  end  laid  aside  the  afternoon  paper 
he  was  reading  and  strode  up  to  the  city  editor's  desk. 

"  Witte,  here,  got  a  statement  from  Weber  of  the 
molders,"  Rand  said.  "  He  says  there  will  be  a  strike 
unless  the  present  negotiations  end  favorably  for  the 
union.  It  is  the  first  authentic  statement  we  have  had 
from  Weber.  Witte  will  give  you  the  exact  wording. 
Give  me  about  two-thirds  of  a  column  on  it.  It  is  a 
first  page  story." 


94  WITTE  ARRIVES 

Addressing  Witte,  the  city  editor  told  him  to  write' 
out  the  other  items  he  had  picked  up  during  the  after 
noon. 

"  Give  them  about  half  a  dozen  lines  each,"  he 
added,  when  Emil  was  seated  at  his  desk. 

The  "  Labor  World  "  corner,  occupying  frequently 
less  than  a  third  of  a  column,  immediately  came  to  be 
the  most  interesting  part  of  the  paper  to  Witte  —  it 
was  the  part  he  had  written. 

Included  in  the  labor  run  was  the  Socialist  party 
headquarters. 

When  Witte  introduced  himself  to  a  rotund,  smiling 
German,  who  was  the  secretary  of  the  party  and  from 

whom  all  news  concerning  the  Socialists  of  N 

emanated,  the  latter  extended  his  hand  to  him  with 
profuse  cordiality. 

"  So  you  are  from  the  Express"  the  secretary  — 
Gus  Miller  was  his  name  —  said.  "  And  what  became 
of  the  other  fellow,  Cochrane?  Was  he  fired,  or  did 
he  get  married  ?  " 

Miller  and  his  colleague  at  the  next  desk  laughed 
volubly  at  this  joke  about  Cochrane.  As  Witte 
seemed  to  remain  somewhat  unappreciative  of  it, 
Miller  explained  that  the  Express  had  changed  at 
least  half  a  dozen  labor  reporters  within  as  many 
months. 

"  Most  of  the  fellows  were  no  good,"  Miller  said. 
"  One  good  reporter  they  had  got  married  and  went 


A  REPORTER  95 

into  the  State  to  become  the  editor  of  a  country  news 
paper." 

When  Witte  called  the  next  day  he  found  Miller 
in  an  argumentative  mood.  The  secretary  launched 
out  on  the  iniquity  of  the  present  system  and  what 
fools  these  mortals  were  for  not  seeing  it  and  for  hav 
ing  to  be  coaxed  into  the  Socialist  fold. 

The  German's  eyes  twinkled  good-humoredly  at  the 
young  reporter. 

"  We  have  been  fairly  successful  with  some  of  the 
reporters  in  the  past,"  Miller  said.  "  Many  of  the 
newspaper  men  in  town  are  Socialists.  We  have  con 
verted  them.  And  now  for  you,  my  boy,  we  shall  have 
to  start  in  making  a  Socialist  of  you." 

Witte  could  not  make  out  whether  Miller  was  speak 
ing  in  jest  or  in  earnest.  The  secretary  continued  in 
the  same  vein. 

"  Hoffman,"  he  said,  addressing  his  companion  at 
the  neighboring  desk,  "I  commission  you  with  the 
job  of  converting  this  young  man.  Show  your  skill 
as  an  agitator  now." 

"It  will  be  no  easy  task,  I  dare  say,"  Hoffman 
replied.  "This  young  man  must  be  fresh  from  the 
University,  where  they  drill  them  carefully  into  the 
belief  that  private  property  is  sacred.  However,  we 
shall  try." 

Hoffman,  smiling,  searched  the  reporter's  eyes  as 
if  in  confirmation  of  his  diagnosis. 


96  WITTE  ARRIVES 

"  You  might  spare  yourself  the  trouble  of  trying  to? 
convert  me,"  Witte  said  simply.  "  I  am  a  Socialist."' 

Miller  and  Hoffman  at  once  dropped  their  banter 
ing  tone  and  became  alive  with  interest  in  the  boy 
before  them.  The  secretary  began  plying  him  with 
questions.  What  local  did  he  belong  to?  Oh,  he 
did  not  belong  to  the  party.  Why  not?  Was  there 
no  Socialist  branch  in  his  town?  He  saw  that  Witte 
was  not  a  native  of  N . 

So  far  as  Witte  knew  there  was  no  Socialist  party 
branch  in  Spring  Water.  Miller  fished  out  a  card 
catalogue  from  one  of  the  drawers  in  his  desk  and 
looked  it  through.  Witte  was  right;  there  was  no 
branch  in  Spring  Water.  He  began  talking  excitedly 
to  Hoffman.  They  were  not  doing  things  right. 
They  should  have  another  organizer  in  the  State.  It 
was  a  rank  shame.  Here  was  a  city  like  Spring 
Water,  a  city  of  fifteen  thousand  people,  and  no 
Socialist  branch  in  it.  He  would  take  the  matter  up 
at  the  next  meeting  of  the  state  executive  board. 
They  must  have  another  organizer  in  the  field  forth 
with! 

"  Are  there  any  other  Socialists  in  Spring  Water?  " 
Miller  wanted  to  know.  Witte  could  not  enlighten 
him. 

"  How  did  you  happen  to  become  a  Socialist?  "  the 
secretary  asked. 


A  REPORTER  97 

"  An  uncle  of  mine,"  Witte  spoke  slowly,  "  an  uncle 
from  Russia,  was  visiting  us  —  he  left  me  some  books 
and  pamphlets." 

Miller  was  talking  excitedly  once  more,  this  time 
about  Russia.  Ah,  that  was  a  country  for  you! 
What  splendid  work  the  revolutionists  were  doing 
there.  What  heroic  self-sacrifice !  Next  to  Germany, 
Russia  would  soon  have  the  strongest  Socialist  move 
ment  in  the  world.  All  this  while  in  the  United  States 
the  Socialist  movement  was  lagging  behind.  Yes, 
lagging  behind,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  every  one 
could  read  here.  .  .  .  They  must  put  another  or 
ganizer  in  the  State  at  once.  A  city  like  Spring  Water 
without  a  Socialist  branch!  Such  splendid  material 
as  this  young  man  having  to  wait  for  an  uncle  from 
Russia  to  bring  him  Socialist  books  and  pamphlets. 
It  was  a  shame,  a  rank  shame !  He  would  take  it  up 
at  the  next  meeting  of  the  executive  board;  they  must 
economize  elsewhere.  But  they  must  put  another 
organizer  in  the  field  — 

When  Witte  had  written  out  his  Socialist  items  — 
there  was  almost  double  the  usual  number  of  items  that 
afternoon  —  Rand  said  to  him  as  he  was  running  his 
pencil  over  a  line  in  the  copy : 

"  The  old  windbag  was  talkative  to-day." 

Witte  guessed  that  he  meant  Miller,  the  secretary 
of  the  Socialist  party. 


98  WITTE  ARRIVES 

"It  is  all  right  though,"  Rand  added.  "Always 
pick  up  as  many  of  these  little  items  as  you  can  — 
Go  to  dinner." 

Witte  laid  aside  the  magazine(  and  walked  up  to  the 
window.  It  was  a  sultry  August  afternoon  and  the 
heat  in  the  attic  room  he  occupied  was  insufferable. 
But  the  heat  made  him  far  less  uncomfortable  than  the 
story  he  had  just  finished.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  fine  story,  the  kind  he  would  himself  like 
to  have  written.  He  wondered  what  sort  of  man  the 
author  was.  A  man  who  could  write  a  story  with  so 
much  feeling  in  it,  with  so  much  tenderness,  could  not 
be  happy.  Yet  the  successful  putting  of  such  a  story 
on  paper  in  itself  ought  to  be  sufficient  to  bring  happi 
ness  to  any  man.  He  gazed  at  his  own  half  column 
of  cut  and  dried  notices  in  the  Express.  What  a  vast 
expanse  of  life  and  experience  lay  between  his  half 
column  of  labor  items  and  the  story  he  had  just  read ! 
Would  he  traverse  that  distance?  And  if  not,  what 
was  he  doing  there  ?  Was  he  undergoing  this  struggle 
merely  for  a  fate  like  Jim  Bayley's? 

In  the  three  months  Emil  had  been  on  the  staff  of 
the  Express  he  had  learned  much  about  newspaper 
life,  although  he  never  took  part  in  the  conversation 
of  the  older  reporters  —  merely  listened.  The  fame 
and  glory  of  the  business  was  on  the  wane,  he  heard 
constantly  repeated.  It  was  becoming  less  and  less 


A  REPORTER  99 

of  a  profession.  Chances  for  getting  up  were  fewer, 
chances  for  losing  out  increasing.  One  of  the  things 
that  always  depressed  him  was  a  visit  to  the  office  from 
Jim  Bayley. 

James  Hawthorne  Bayley  was  a  man  of  sixty.  He 
was  married  and  had  grandchildren.  Though  he 
made  an  effort  to  keep  himself  erect,  his  shoulders 
were  stooped.  When  he  walked  he  shuffled  his  feet 
in  a  way  that  showed  he  had  done  a  great  deal  of 
walking  in  his  life.  But  his  face  was  boyish.  From 
the  editor,  Mr.  Hamlin,  to  the  youngest  office  boy, 
every  one  on  the  Express  called  him  "  Jim."  Bayley 
would  joke  with  the  reporters,  look  roguishly  when 
one  of  the  boys  told  a  piquant  story.  He  always  had 
a  knowing,  indulgent  smile  on  his  lips.  The  reporters 
always  remarked  how  well  he  kept  up. 

In  his  day  Jim  Bayley  was  a  power.  He  was  in 
turn  star  reporter,  city  editor,  managing  editor  on  the 

N papers.  Now  he  was  an  all-round  man  on  the 

Blade,  a  struggling  afternoon  newspaper.  He  was 
working  under  a  man  he  had  brought  up.  Two  or 
three  times  a  week  the  city  editor  of  the  Express 
would  call  him  on  the  telephone.  There  were  certain 
stories  no  one  could  handle  so  well  as  Jim  Bayley. 
The  city  editor  would  whisper  a  few  words  to  him, 
Jim  would  nod  knowingly,  and  disappear. 

His  stories  always  ran  long.  Occasionally  Rand 
would  remark  this  to  Bill  Francis,  the  political  re- 


ioo  WITTE  ARRIVES 

porter.  The  two  would  smile,  but  the  city  editor 
would  turn  in  the  copy  just  as  it  was  written.  Jim 
was  paid  space  rates  and  he  needed  the  extra  money. 

Yes,  Witte  thought,  it  was  a  case  either  of  writing 
stories  like  the  one  in  the  magazine  and  getting  fame 
and  a  competence,  or  else  of  labor  news,  court  news, 
city  hall  news,  with  a  wind-up  like  that  of  Jim  Bayley. 

He  went  down  into  the  street  thinking  how  he  was 
going  to  spend  the  afternoon  and  evening.  It  was  his 
day  off.  Rand  had  given  him  tickets  to  an  amusement 
park.  But  he  had  been  to  the  park  before  and  was 
bored.  An  idea  came  to  him.  He  would  go  down  to 
see  his  people.  .  .  . 

The  Jews  of  N were  huddled  together  in  a  few 

blocks  in  one  part  of  the  city.  Emil  had  been  through 
the  district  before.  But  those  were  hurried  business 
trips.  This  time  he  walked  leisurely. 

The  streets  here  were  teeming  with  humanity.  The 
heat  had  driven  the  people  from  their  stuffy  quarters 
into  the  open.  Women  were  sitting  in  the  hallways 
or  on  benches  near  their  houses.  They  chatted 
volubly  in  Yiddish. 

Evening  was  approaching,  and  the  men  and  girls 
came  straggling  from  the  shops  and  factories,  each 
met  by  the  anxious  look  of  a  wife  or  mother,  each 
questioned  and  talking  about  the  weather,  the  heat, 
and  how  it  was  becoming  unbearable  around  four 
o'clock,  toward  the  close  of  the  day.  He  sought  out 


A  REPORTER  101 

a  Jewish  restaurant  and  took  his  dinner  there!  The 
place  was  small  and  there  were  only  three  people  about 
the  half  a  dozen  tables.  The  meal  reminded  Witte 
of  home.  His  mother  cooked  just  such  meals. 

The  proprietress  of  the  restaurant  came  up  to  where 
he  sat  and  talked  to  him.  She  was  a  middle-aged, 

motherly-looking  woman,  who  had  come  to  N 

recently  from  New  York.  She  had  never  before  seen 
Emil  Witte  at  her  place,  and  she  wondered  whether 
he  was  a  recent  arrival  from  New  York. 

She  had  taken  Emil  for  a  tailor,  first,  because  all 
the  Jewish  young  men  who  came  to  eat  at  her  place 
were  tailors,  and  secondly,  because  Emil's  shoulders 
were  stooped  exactly  like  the  shoulders  of  a  machine 
operator. 

Her  questions,  frank  and  penetrating,  did  not  offend 
Emil.  On  the  contrary,  he  liked  to  be  talked  to  by  the 
motherly-looking  woman.  Nobody  had  talked  to  him 
so  kindly  and  with  such  whole-souled  simplicity  since 
he  had  been  in  N ,  since  he  had  left  home. 

When  he  emerged  into  the  street  again  night  lay 

over  the  N ghetto.  The  girls  and  boys  had  on 

their  best  clothes,  and  in  pairs,  or  in  couples,  were 
going  down-town,  or  to  parks.  The  older  people  re 
mained  sitting  in  their  hallways  or  on  chairs  and 
benches  near  their  homes,  drinking  in  the  slight  breeze. 

He  came  upon  a  small  bookstore.  In  the  window 
were  the  works  of  Yiddish  authors  whose  names  his 


102  WTTTE  ARRIVES 

father  frequently  mentioned.  He  bought  several  of 
the  small,  paper-covered  volumes  and  started  for  his 
room. 

His  explorations  of  the  N ghetto  left  him  with 

a  heavy  heart.  They  revived  memories  of  his  own 
coming  to  the  new  world  and  of  the  four  years  of 
separation  from  his  father,  those  tender  years  passed 
in  loneliness  and  unutterable  longing  for  his  sire,  a 
longing  only  partly  quenched  with  the  letter  the  post 
man  handed  them  once  a  week. 

He  began  reading  one  of  the  Yiddish  books  he  had 
bought.  The  little  volume  dealt  with  the  very 
things  he  had  been  thinking  of,  the  pathos  of  parting 
iand  the  joy  of  the  reunion  in  the  new  world  of  an 
.immigrant  family.  It  was  midnight  when  he  laid 
aside  the  book  after  reading  it  from  cover  to  cover. 
Just  before  he  fell  asleep  an  idea  came  to  him.  Why 

not  write  up  the  N ghetto?     He  would  try  it  in 

the  morning.     He  set  his  alarm  clock  at  seven. 

He  wrote  the  story  the  following  morning,  and  the 
morning  after  and  the  third  morning.  Then  he  found 
that  he  had  begun  telling  his  story  at  its  weakest  point 
and  rewrote  it  anew.  Stealthily  he  laid  down  the 
manuscript  on  the  city  editor's  desk,  after  receiving 
his  assignments  for  the  day,  and  made  a  rush  for  the 
elevator.  He  did  not  wish  to  meet  Rand's  gaze,  nor 
see  what  disposition  the  city  editor  would  make  of  his 
uncalled-for  contribution. 


A  REPORTER  103 

When  Witte  returned  to  the  office  at  five  o'clock 
and  sat  down  to  write  his  labor  items,  Rand  called  him. 
The  city  editor  introduced  him  to  the  Sunday  editor. 
Rand  had  turned. over  Witte's  story  to  the  latter. 

The  Sunday  editor  —  Witte  did  not  get  his  name 
and  was  too  timid  to  ask  —  explained  what  he  wished. 
Could  not  Witte  elaborate  the  story  in  one  or  two 
places  —  he  pointed  out  the  places  —  and  return  it  in 
the  morning? 

Nothing  further  was  said  about  the  story  till  mid 
night  Saturday.  At  that  hour  the  city  editor  tore  off 
a  page  from  the  Sunday  supplement  and  handing  it  to 
Witte  said: 

"  Here  is  your  story." 

Across  the  seven  columns  of  the  page  was  the  head 
line,  "  An  Evening  in  the  N Ghetto."  The  story 

and  illustrations  covered  the  entire  page.  Some  of 
the  more  striking  sentences  in  the  story  were  boxed 
near  the  top  of  the  page.  Above  the  body  of  the 
story  in  big  letters  came  the  legend  — "By  Emil 
Witte  — " 

Monday  noon  Witte  found  on  his  desk  a  letter  from 
Lena  Rosen.  There  were  congratulations  on  the  suc 
cess  he  had  made  in  journalism  and  much  praise  of  his 
story.  .  .  .  Then  there  came  some  gossipy  news  about 
Spring  Water's  young  set  — the  Jewish  set.  As  he 
read  the  letter  Emil  became  conscious  of  how  far  he 


104  WITTE  ARRIVES 

had  drifted,  from  this  set,  which  consisted  of  boys  and 
girls  of  his  own  age,  his  former  schoolfellows,  in  the 
years  he  had  been  at  the  University. 

The  letter  wound  up  with  a  plaintive  note.  Life  in 
Spring  Water  was  dull.  Lena  would  be  happy  if  she 
too  could  go  to  a  city  and  strike  out  for  herself.  But 
her  parents  would  not  hear  of  it. 

"  They  are  keeping  me  here  '  like  a  goose  in  a 
cage/  "  Lena  wrote,  Englishing  a  Yiddish  phrase  of 
her  mother's. 

Before  Emil's  eyes  rose  the  face  of  Lena,  so  remi 
niscent  of  the  fat  Mrs.  Rosen  and  yet  so  wonderfully 
different.  For  Lena  was  slender  and  stately  and  had 
refined  manners  and  an  aristocratic  bearing. 

He  thought  of  the  girl  all  afternoon.  In  his  mind 
he  talked  to  her.  Oh,  how  he  talked !  He  never  knew 
he  could  be  so  eloquent.  He  talked  of  his  future.  It 
was  to  be  a  big  future.  No,  not  money.  He  would 
do  things  —  big  things.  He  would  write.  He  would 
write  about  the  poor  and  disinherited,  the  people  he 
was  meeting  on  his  rounds  as  a  labor  reporter,  the 
misunderstood,  submerged  people  of  the  slums.  .  .  . 
And  in  his  mind's  eye  he  saw  Lena  agreeing  with  him 
—  understanding  him  —  ready  to  follow  him  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth  — 

There  were  the  usual  number  of  clippings  on  his 
desk,  obituaries  from  the  evening  papers,  to  rewrite. 
He  wrote  the  items  rapidly  one  after  the  other.  He 


A  REPORTER  105 

felt  equal  to  tasks  ten  times  as  great.  He  welcomed 
work. 

A  soreness  against  the  city  editor  arose  in  his  heart. 
What  was  he  keeping  him  on  this  drab  stuff  for,  in 
stead  of  giving  him  real  work  to  do,  instead  of  giving 
him  assignments  that  would  offer  an  opportunity  to 
show  his  skill  as  a  writer  ?  But  the  soreness  soon  gave 
way  to  the  pleasant  recollection  of  Lena's  letter. 
What  a  fine  judge  of  writing  she  was!  How  en 
thusiastic  she  was  about  his  story,  how  she  understood 
him  — 

"  Witte,"  Rand  bellowed  across  the  room,  "  this  is 
a  metropolitan  city.  You  left  out  the  street  number 
in  the  Winkelmann  obit.  What  is  it?  " 

Emil  fumbled  among  his  papers,  found  the  clipping 
and  read  off  the  number,  under  the  city  editor's  blaz 
ing  look.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  received  a  ducking  in 
ice  water.  The  picture  of  Lena  and  all  the  bold  and 
pleasant  thoughts  with  which  it  had  been  associated 
that  afternoon  faded  from  his  brain.  He  was  gloomy 
the  rest  of  the  evening.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  VIII 

CHICAGO 

WITTE'S  story  in  the  Sunday  paper  was  not 
without  effect.  The  city  editor  began  giving 
him  better  assignments.  The  young  reporter's  ability 
to  enliven  the  subject  he  wrote  about,  to  heighten  and 
vivify  the  human  touch  in  it,  called  forth  Rand's 
favorable  comment. 

Rand's  opinions  were  highly  valued  by  the  staff  of 
the  Express.  The  city  editor  was  an  importation 
from  Chicago  where  he  had  been  the  head  of  the  copy 
desk  on  a  leading  paper.  His  praise  of  Witte  rapidly 
changed  the  latter's  status  in  the  office.  Caste  lines 
that  were  tightly  drawn  against  the  "  cub  "  in  the  first 
few  weeks  began  to  drop  off.  He  was  treated  as  an 
equal.  Some  even  tried  to  be  chummy  with  him. 

Riley,  the  hotel  man,  was  the  first  to  swing  around. 

As  Witte  was  clearing  his  desk  one  night  a  little 
after  midnight,  Riley  asked :  "  Going  over  to 
Schroeder's  ?  "  And  they  went  out  together. 

Schroeder's  was  a  saloon  around  the  corner  from 
the  Express  office.  Here  the  men  working  on  the 

106 


CHICAGO  107 

morning  papers  found  an  especially  prepared  lunch  for 
them  at  midnight,  and  would  spend  an  hour  eating 
and  chatting  before  going  home. 

Witte  ordered  a  beer. 

"  Take  a  regular  drink,"  Riley  said  encouragingly. 
"  You  are  a  full-fledged  reporter  now.  That  story 
of  yours  goes  on  the  first  page  in  the  morning.  Rand 
was  tickled  with  it." 

From  that  night  on  the  subject  of  drink  became  the 

nightmare  of  Witte's  existence  in  N .  Whisky 

revolted  him  physically.  This  abhorrence  of  it  made 
him  laughable  in  the  eyes  of  the  widening  circle  of 
reporters  he  came  to  know. 

One  night  as  he  passed  up  the  bottle  and  told  the 
waiter  to  give  him  a  beer  one  jovial  member  of  the 
company  hailed  him  as  a  disciple  of  Carrie  Nation. 
On  another  occasion  his  repugnance  to  whisky  was 
suddenly  made  a  race  issue. 

One  of  the  reporters  had  read  that  the  Jews  as  a 
race  were  temperate  to  a  high  degree.  He  recounted 
this  to  the  company,  and  each  began  asking  Witte 
whether  the  Jews  were  averse  to  drink  on  religious 
grounds. 

These  questions  made  him  uncomfortable.  It  an 
noyed  him  to  have  his  race  and  religion,  and  the 
thousands  of  years  of  history  back  of  them,  dragged 
into  a  matter  of  his  own  personal  distaste.  Why 
charge  up  a  trifling  peculiarity  of  his  to  the  fact  that 


io8  WITTE  ARRIVES 

he  was  a  Jew?  Why  raise  the  question  of  race  and 
on  that  ground  single  him  out  as  "  different "  ? 

He  resolved  to  end  these  annoyances.  He  would 
take  a  drink  of  whisky  now  and  then,  or  at  least  he 
would  try  to  have  the  appearance  of  drinking.  But 
his  "  appearance "  was  soon  detected.  Riley  once 
held  up  Witte's  glass  with  a  thimbleful  of  whisky  in 
it  for  the  inspection  of  the  company,  and  they  had  a 
hearty  laugh  at  his  expense. 

Embittered,  Emil  Witte  now  began  taking  at  least 
one  "  good  "  drink  an  evening,  although  he  felt  sick 
for  hours  afterward. 

One  night  as  he  watched  Riley  empty  his  third  glass 
of  whisky,  a  question  slipped  Witte's  tongue. 

"  Why  do  you  fellows  drink  so  much  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Well,  what  else  would  you  have  us  do  ?  "  the  hotel 
reporter  laughed  hoarsely. 

The  thoughtful  manner  in  which  Witte  gazed  into 
space  finally  communicated  itself  to  Riley. 

"  You  might  as  well  ask  why  we  stay  in  the  news 
paper  business,"  the  hotel  reporter  said.  "  There  is 
just  as  much  logic  to  it  as  there  is  to  drinking.  What 
other  fun  can  one  have  at  this  hour  of  the  night? 

"  I  have  sometimes  wondered,"  Riley  continued, 
growing  morose,  "where  this  is  going  to  lead  to. 
I  have  been  a  newspaper  man  for  five  years  now.  If 
I  were  a  lawyer,  a  physician,  a  business  man,  I  should 
be  settled  by  this  time.  In  this  business  nothing  is 


CHICAGO  109 

settled  beyond  the  fact  that  I  will  be  here  again  to 
morrow  night  and  will  be  taking  the  same  number  of 
drinks.  I  had  ambitions  to  write  once,  but  they 
petered  out.  They  peter  out  with  most  newspaper 
men.  The  desire  to  drink  is  the  only  permanent  thing 
about  the  business.  Nothing  else  is  stable  in  it.  ... 
Perhaps  in  a  big  city,  in  Chicago  or  New  York,  it 
might  be  different." 

Witte  asked  about  Chicago.  Had  Riley  ever  been 
there? 

Riley  had  never  worked  in  Chicago.  But  every  so 

often  a  man  would  leave  N to  go  to  Chicago.  In 

the  majority  of  cases  the  fellows  came  back  and  were 
glad  to  get  their  old  jobs  again.  In  fact  men  from 
Chicago  were  often  glad  to  slip  into  a  good  job  in  a 

smaller  city,  in  N for  instance.  Rand  was  an 

example.  In  Chicago  he  probably  would  have  re 
mained  a  copy  reader  all  his  life.  Here  he  was  city 
editor;  some  day  he  might  become  managing  edi 
tor. 

Emil  Witte  and  Riley  were  standing  at  the  bar  in 
Schroeder's,  when  two  reporters  of  the  Dispatch  came 
in.  One  of  them  ordered  drinks  for  the  crowd. 
Witte  had  had  one  whisky,  but  having  determined  not 
to  make  himself  conspicuous,  he  poured  out  another. 
When  the  bartender  put  the  bottle  before  him  for  the 
third  time,  Witte  filled  his  glass  without  further  hesi- 


no  WITTE  ARRIVES 

tancy.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  filling  the  glass 
not  for  himself  but  for  somebody  else.  .  .  .  That 
somebody  else  lifted  the  glass  and  drank  to  his,  Witte's 
health.  .  .  .  Witte  experienced  a  peculiar  sensation 
in  the  front  part  of  his  head.  His  eyelids  felt  pain 
fully  heavy  and  sore. 

One  of  the  reporters  began  upbraiding  Schroeder 
for  the  goulash  and  pot  roast  which  he  fed  them  on 
night  after  night.  He  suggested  that  they  go  to  a 
chop  suey  place  and  have  "  a  regular  feed."  The  rest 
agreed.  Emil  heard  what  they  were  saying  as  if  in 
a  dream. 

Riley  saw  to  it  that  Emil  ate  his  chop  suey.  Several 
times  when  Emil's  hand  rested  on  the  table  feeling  too 
heavy  to  hold  the  fork,  Riley  urged  him  on.  Indis 
tinctly  Witte  heard  his  name  hurled  back  and  forth  in 
the  conversation.  They  were  laughing,  too,  but  it 
was  not  at  him  they  were  laughing,  but  at  somebody 
else,  who  had  been  drinking  whisky.  Witte  leered  at 
that  somebody.  He  was  going  to  banter  him,  too, 
but  his  tongue  refused  to  move.  It  felt  as  if  it  were 
glued  to  the  back  of  his  throat.  .  .  . 

The  company  moved  and  Witte  moved  along  with 
them.  Now  he  realized  what  an  incumbrance  that 
somebody  else,  who  had  been  drinking  whisky,  was 
upon  him.  ...  He  was  constantly  stepping  upon  one 
or  the  other  of  his  feet.  He  was  in  his  way  at  every 
step. 


CHICAGO  1 1 1 

A  piano  was  banging,  and  men  and  women  were 
talking  loudly,  and  laughing.  ...  A  man  in  a  white 
coat  and  white  apron  was  busying  himself  about 
Witte's  table,  and  in  a  few  minutes  there  appeared  a 
bottle  on  it  and  glasses.  Riley  had  suddenly  disap 
peared  from  his  side.  Witte  saw  him  vaguely  floating 
about,  talking  to  some  people,  men,  women.  ...  A 
girl  at  the  neighboring  table  was  smiling.  .  .  .  She 
was  motioning  with  her  head  in  his  direction.  She  was 
calling  him  to  come  over,  to  sit  near  her. 

He  recognized  her.  ...  It  was  Lena  Rosen.  .  .  . 
Yes,  Lena  was  sitting  there  at  the  table.  Strange  he 
had  not  recognized  her  at  once.  .  .  .  He  must  go  up 
and  talk  to  her  .  .  .  yes,  ask  about  home  .  .  .  that's 
it,  about  home.  .  .  . 

He  tried  to  lift  himself  from  his  chair,  but  some 
thing  in  his  throat  was  holding  him  back.  .  .  .  He 
must  cry  out,  he  must  call  for  help  —  it  was  choking 
him. 

He  took  hold  of  a  near-by  chair,  stood  up  and  tried 
to  clear  his  throat.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  shriek  from  several  women  and  a 
scampering  in  all  directions.  Two  men  in  white  coats 
and  white  aprons  took  him  under  each  arm  and  led  him 
away.  .  .  .  Riley  and  another  reporter  began  busying 
themselves  about  him,  wiping  his  clothes. 

"  Take  him  outside,  fresh  air  will  do  him  good,'* 
some  one  suggested.  Witte  was  led  outside.  The  air 


112  WITTE  ARRIVES 

cleared  his  head.  .  .  .  He  realized  what  had  taken 
place.  But  he  was  too  sick  to  think. 

"  You  had  better  come  with  me  to  my  room,"  said 
Riley.  "  My  landlady  is  wise.  She  will  fix  up  your 
clothes  in  the  morning  so  they  won't  show  a  trace.  .  .  . 
Such  things  happen  once  in  a  while.  ...  I  guess  that 
chop  suey  disagreed  with  you.  It  came  too  soon  after 
the  drinks." 

Witte's  discomfiture  of  the  night  before,  which  was 
of  course  told  in  every  detail  by  Riley  to  the  other 
reporters  on  the  Express,  evoked  a  smile. 

"  It  was  not  the  drinks,"  Lindley,  the  city  hall  man, 
bantered  thz  young  reporter,  "  it  was  the  music  that 
did  you  up.  I  always  dislike  the  music  at  Righeimer's 
myself." 

Emil  felt  crushed.  What  a  miserable  game  it  was, 
this  trying  to  stand  in  with  the  fellows  by  drinking 
at  the  expense  of  his  self-respect,  let  alone  his  health. 
What  a  disgusting  business ! 

Riley  was  right.  It  was  the  fault  of  N .  It 

was  no  place  to  be  in.  There  was  no  atmosphere  there. 
He  must  go  to  a  city  where  there  were  literary  people 
—  Avhere  there  was  a  field.  He  would  leave  the  Ex 
press  at  the  end  of  the  Week. 

When  Witte,  the  following  afternoon,  upon  find 
ing  a  favorable  moment  walked  over  to  Rand  and  told 
him  that  he  would  leave  the  Express  at  the  close  of 


CHICAGO  113 

the  week,  the  city  editor  lifted  his  eyes  slowly,  and 
swinging  back  in  his  chair,  merely  said:  "  All  right." 

Before  going  out  to  dinner,  however,  Rand  walked 
over  to  Witte's  desk.  He  was  pressed  for  men,  he 
said.  The  Express  had  for  some  time  been  running 
with  a  shorter  staff  than  usual.  If  Witte  stayed  he 
would  raise  his  wages  to  fifteen  dollars  a  week  —  he 
was  getting  twelve. 

The  Express  was  paying  the  highest  salaries  in  town. 
The  Dispatch  would  not  pay  him  more,  the  city  editor 
added. 

Witte  allayed  Rand's  suspicions  on  that  score.  He 
was  not  going  over  to  the  Dispatch,  he  said,  but  was 
leaving  town.  He  was  going  to  Chicago. 

"  Got  a  job  there?  "  Rand,  asked.  "  Friends  in  the 
newspaper  field? " 

Witte  admitted  that  he  had  no  friends  in  Chicago 
and  not  the  slightest  outlook  for  a  position,  but  that 
he  wanted  to  be  in  a  big  city,  was  determined  to  be 
there. 

"  You'd  better  wait  until  you  have  more  experience," 
Rand  counseled.  "  Chicago  is  hardly  a  place  for  a 
beginner  like  yourself." 

Witte  made  no  answer  to  this,  and  Rand  walked 
out. 

At  midnight  Saturday,  as  Witte  was  putting  the 
clippings  of  some  of  his  stories  in  an  envelope,  Rand 
walked  over  to  the  reporter. 


114  WITTE  ARRIVES 

"When  are  you  leaving?"  he  asked. 

"  In  the  morning." 

"  You  are  not  wasting  any  time,"  Rand  said,  a  thin 
note  of  sarcasm  in  his  voice.  The  next  instant  his 
voice  was  serious  again. 

"  Stick  to  that  freak  stuff,  to  feature  writing,"  the 
city  editor  cast  a  final,  friendly  warning.  "You  are 
good  at  it.  It  will  be  this  that  will  make  you  —  pro 
vided,  of  course,  you  hit  it  right." 

Witte  thanked  him  for  this  kindly  advice. 

When  the  reporter  had  left  the  office,  Rand,  waking 
from  a  momentary  revery,  remarked  to  the  political 
editor :  "  The  boy  will  go  far,  he  has  character." 

"  Yes,"  Francis  replied,  "  it  is  just  like  those  quiet 
foreigners  — " 

"...  And  here  is  the  bathroom.  Everything  is 
nice  and  clean  —  and  I  don't  allow  any  rough  people 
here.  This  is  not  like  them  other  places  down  the 
street  that  takes  in  any  one  who  comes  along.  ...  I 
am  perticular  —  and  I  don't  allow  any  can  rushing. 
It  is  a  fine  room  for  the  money.  You  won't  get  any 
thing  better  for  two  dollars  a  week  in  the  whole 
city.  .  .  ." 

Witte  had  never  been  to  Chicago  except  for  passing 
through  it  on  his  way  from  the  old  world  to  Spring 
Water,  thirteen  years  back.  He  had  planned  to  stop 
at  a  hotel  for  a  few  days  until  he  had  acquainted  him- 


CHICAGO  115 

self  with  the  town.  But  there  were  nearly  three  col 
umns  of  advertisements  of  rooms  to  rent  on  Van 
Buren  Street  in  the  Chicago  Sunday  Star  which  he 
bought  on  the  train.  One  never  could  tell  how  long 
one  might  have  to  wait  for  a  job  —  he  had  better  be 
sparing  with  his  money.  He  would  dispense  with 
hotels  and  take  a  room  at  once.  He  checked  his  suit 
case  in  the  station.  The  first  policeman  he  met  di 
rected  him  to  a  Van  Buren  Street  car. 

The  landlady,  a  rotund,  middle-aged  Irish  matron 
with  a  skin  as  fair  as  that  of  a  young  girl,  was  still 
speaking  in  her  not  unpleasant  brogue  when  Witte 
handed  her  a  week's  rent.  Would  he  take  possession 
of  the  room  at  once?  He  would.  She  went  down 
stairs  to  get  him  a  key  for  the  hall  door.  Witte  moved 
the  only  chair  in  the  room  to  the  window  and  drawing 
aside  the  curtain  sat  looking  out  upon  the  street. 

It  was  the  middle. of  November,  but  the  day  was 
warm,  almost  summery.  Witte  had  not  eaten  any 
thing  since  breakfast  and  it  was  nearly  four  o'clock. 
A  few  doors  from  the  rooming-house  he  found  a  res 
taurant  which  was  kept  by  an  Italian.  A  solitary 
waiter  was  dozing  at  a  table.  The  deserted  appear 
ance  of  the  place  reminded  him  strongly  that  it  was 
Sunday,  that  every  one  was  at  home,  —  with  friends. 
He  thought  of  his  parents,  of  Spring  Water.  .  .  . 
While  he  was  sipping  his  coffee  he  wrote  a  few  lines 
on  a  postcard  to  his  father. 


n6  WITTE  ARRIVES 

Evening  found  him  exhausted  and  gloomy.  On  the 
mantelpiece  in  his  room  lay  several  old  magazines. 
He  picked  one  up  and  began  to  turn  the  pages.  There 
was  writing  in  several  places  in  a  feminine  hand.  The 
room  must  have  been  occupied  last  by  a  girl.  Where 
was  the  girl  now?  Did  she  go  somewhere  else  to 
room?  Or  had  romance  set  her  free  from  the  hall 
bedroom  existence  ? 

He  thought  of  Lena.  He  owed  her  a  letter.  But 
he  would  not  write  until  he  got  a  job.  He  wondered 
what  she  would  think  of  the  step  he  had  taken,  of  his 
going  to  Chicago.  Of  course  she  would  know  that  he 

had  left  N •.     She  would  learn  it  from  his  mother. 

She  was  coming  to  their  house  often  of  late,  his  father 
had  written. 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  the  room  seemed  suddenly 
to  fill  with  Lena's  presence.  ...  He  breathed  the  per 
fume  of  her  hair.  She  was  coming  nearer  —  bending 
over  him —  He  was  asleep. 

He  was  up  at  seven  and  by  noon  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  had  passed  a  long  day.  In  spite  of  his  de 
cision  not  to  look  for  a  job  until  he  had  acquainted 
himself  with  the  city,  he  sought  out  the  newspaper 
offices  the  very  first  thing  and  noted  carefully  the  ap 
pearance  of  each  building  and  the  streets  that  led  to 
it. 

There  was  a  dryness  in  his  throat.     His  chest  pained 


CHICAGO  117 

him  from  the  smoke  he  had  swallowed.  There  was 
an  incessant  ringing  in  his  ears.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
he  would  never  get  used  to  the  noise  and  clatter  of  the 
city,  that  he  would  never  find  himself  in  this  maze  of 
elevated  trains  and  street  cars  that  were  chasing  each 
other  in  endless  streams. 

The  third  morning  there  was  a  letter  from  his  father. 
In  contrast  to  his  own  few  lines,  his  father  wrote  at 
length.  It  was  a  cheerful,  encouraging  letter.  Aaron 

Witte  approved  his  son's  course  in  leaving  N . 

He  felt  confident  in  his  son's  ability  to  make  good  in 
the  big  city.  "  It  may  be  difficult  at  first,"  he  wrote, 
"  but  then  things  worth  while  never  come  easy — " 

In  spite  of  the  cheerful  tone  of  the  letter  Emil  saw 
between  the  lines  that  it  was  written  with  an  aching 
heart.  His  father  and  mother  were  uneasy  about  his 
fortunes  in  the  far-off,  strange  city.  His  departure 
for  Chicago  had  made  the  distance  between  himself 
and  his  parents  greater.  At  the  close  of  the  letter  his 
father  sent  him  the  address  of  a  relative,  a  cousin  of 
Aaron's,  a  Mrs.  Bloch,  who  lived  in  Chicago.  He 
urged  Emil  to  go  up  and  see  her.  Aaron  and  Re 
becca,  that  was  Mrs.  Bloch's  first  name,  had  been  al 
most  like  sister  and  brother  in  their  younger  days. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day  the  weather  turned 
colder.  Emil  walked  into  the  reading-room  of  the 
public  library  and  found  every  seat  taken  by  jobless, 


ii8  WITTE  ARRIVES 

hungry  men.  Some  read,  others  made  a  pretense  of 
reading,  and  in  reality  sought  to  snatch  a  few  minutes 
sleep  without  being  caught  at  it  by  the  attendant  who 
was  on  the  alert  to  weed  out  all  who  were  not  bona 
fide  readers. 

Emil  consulted  his  map  of  Chicago  and  took  a  car 
to  the  neighborhood  where  his  father's  cousin  lived. 
The  conductor  let  him  off  at  Morgan  Street.  He 
found  himself  in  the  heart  of  Chicago's  ghetto.  On 
every  side  were  people  of  his  race,  talking  the  lan 
guage  in  which  his  mother  crooned  him  to  sleep  in 
/his  childhood,  not  stealthily  and  in  hushed  voices  as 
they  spoke  Yiddish  in  Spring  Water,  but  with  perfect 
indifference,  not  feeling  that  they  were  making  them 
selves  conspicuous.  They  were  at  home  in  the  Chicago 
ghetto  almost  as  much  as  they  had  been  in  the  Russian 
Pale. 

Absorption  in  the  sights  about  him  delayed  Emil's 
search  for  Mrs.  Bloch.  He  finally  hunted  up  the  house. 
It  was  a  three-story  building.  A  woman  who  emerged 
from  the  dark  hall,  informed  him  that  the  Blochs  lived 
on  the  third  floor,  in  front.  He  went  up  and  rapped 
at  the  door. 

It  was  opened  by  a  woman  of  fifty  who  had  been 
busying  herself  in  the  kitchen. 

"Are  you  Mrs.  Bloch  —  Rebecca?"  Witte  asked 
emphasizing  the  first  name  last. 

"  Yes,"  the  woman  answered,  backing  her  way  into 


CHICAGO  119 

the  parlor  so  as  to  be  able  to  discern  the  visitor's  face 
better. 

"  I  am  Aaron's  son  —  Emil,"  he  introduced  him 
self.  He  held  out  his  hand. 

But  the  woman  did  not  take  it.  She  gazed  at  his 
face  and  seemed  unable  to  find  words.  She  finally 
managed  to  speak : 

"  You  are  —  Emil,  the  little  Emil  —  Aaron's  and 
Masha's  son  ? " 

Witte  nodded  stupidly.  He  was  moved  by  the  pe 
culiar  twitching  of  the  muscles  in  the  woman's  face. 

She  took  his  hand  and  pulled  him  over  to  herself  as 
if  he  were  a  small  boy,  and  kissed  his  cheeks. 

"  Why,  child,"  she  gasped,  as  her  eyes  filled  with 
a  haze,  "  I  raised  you.  I  carried  you  in  my  arms  as 
an  infant.  But  you  don't  remember  me.  I  left  for 
America  when  you  were  only  two  years  old." 

She  began  to  ply  him  with  questions  about  his  par 
ents,  tender,  inmost  questions.  Emil  felt  ashamed  for 
having  prized  his  relationship  to  this  woman  so  little 
but  an  hour  before. 

Mr.  Bloch  appeared  to  be  of  the  same  age  as  Emil's 
father  and  had  known  Aaron  Witte  since  boyhood. 
He  "  knew  "  Emil  in  an  instant. 

"  I  could  recognize  him  among  thousands,"  he  said, 
not  without  pride  in  his  own  keenness.  "  Why,  he  is 
the  picture  of  Aaron." 

The  Blochs  had  two  married  children.     The  others, 


120  WITTE  ARRIVES 

a  boy  of  Emil's  age  and  a  girl  of  seventeen,  were  still 
living  with  them.  The  boy,  Sam,  took  an  immediate 
liking  to  his  second  cousin. 

After  the  evening  meal  the  Blochs  insisted  that  Witte 
go  at  once  with  Sam  and  move  his  things.  They  could 
not  permit  Emil  to  stay  with  strangers. 

On  the  way  to  the  Van  Buren  Street  rooming-house 
Sam  confided  to  Emil  his  ambitions.  He  was  a  cut 
ter  in  a  cloak  shop.  This  was  not  a  bad  trade  in  itself, 
better  than  his  father's,  who  was  a  presser  in  a  sweat 
shop.  But  he  was  ambitious.  He  was  taking  up  a 
night  course  and  would  soon  be  a  designer. 

Mrs.  Bloch  and  her  husband  meantime  were  dis 
cussing  Witte's  occupation.  The  husband  spoke  of  it 
with  high  respect.  His  only  regret  was  that  Aaron's 
boy,  as  he  referred  to  Emil,  did  not  write  in  Yiddish 
so  that  he  could  read  his  articles.  To  have  a  writer 
in  the  family  was  no  small  honor. 

"  And  is  the  boy  very  learned?  "  Rebecca  asked. 

"  Learned?  "  Mr.  Bloch  exclaimed.  "  Why  the  boy 
is  what  might  be  compared  to  a  great  rabbi  —  been 
through  a  university!  Only  his  learning,  you  under 
stand,  is  different  from  that  of  a  rabbi.  It  concerns 
itself  with  other  matters,  worldly  learning." 

Mrs.  Bloch  listened  to  her  husband  and  her  heart 
melted. 

"  What  is  there  to  marvel  at?  "  Bloch  said.  "  You 
know  what  a  head  Aaron  had  on  him.  If  it  had  not 


CHICAGO  121 

been  for  his  great  love  for  Masha  he  would  have  been 
a  rabbi,  one  of  the  pillars  of  Israel  now." 

And  then  they  talked  of  things  more  than  a  genera 
tion  old,  until  Witte,  accompanied  by  Sam,  who  was 
carrying  his  suitcase,  came  back. 

Rebecca  kept  plying  Emil  with  questions.  She  even 
asked  him  to  recount  his  ocean  voyage. 

"Foolish  woman,"  her  husband  chided  her  good- 
naturedly.  "He  did  not  come  from  the  old  world 
yesterday.  He  has  been  here  thirteen  years.  He  must 
have  long  forgotten  his  ocean  voyage." 

But  Emil  remembered  his  ocean  voyage  and  de 
scribed  it  minutely  to  Rebecca.  He  recalled  a  thou 
sand  things  which  he  had  never  thought  of  in  all  the 
years  he  had  been  in  the  new  world.  ...  He  took  de 
light  in  remembering  these  things. 

He  fell  asleep  quickly,  and  he  dreamed  of  the  little 
town  where  he  was  born.  He  dreamed  that  his  father 
was  going  to  America,  and  that  he  was  sleeping  in  the 
same  bed  with  his  father  for  the  last  time ;  and  Aaron 
was  kissing  his  head  and  face  and  was  telling  him  that 
he  must  learn  well  and  must  obey  his  mother,  and  that 
he  would  quiz  him  on  everything  he  had  studied  when 
Emil  came  to  him  to  America. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   ROAD   TO    NOWHERE 

BY  the  afternoon  the  heavy  snowfall  had  changed 
into  a  blizzard.  It  was  the  first  touch  of  real 
winter  Chicago  had  experienced  that  season,  although 
Christmas  was  only  a  week  off.  Witte  gazed  through 
the  windows  of  the  Banner  office  at  the  gathering  fury 
of  the  snowstorm. 

It  was  after  four  o'clock.  The  regular  news  edition 
of  the  paper  had  gone  to  press.  In  the  sporting  de 
partment  alone  several  men  were  still  busy  getting  out 
the  final  extra.  Witte  had  been  a  week  with  the  Ban 
ner  and  was  already  familiar  with  the  routine  of  an 
afternoon  newspaper. 

"  Any  engagements  to-night?  "  Benton,  the  city  edi 
tor,  asked  in  passing. 

Witte  had  no  engagements. 

"  You  might  run  over  to  the  municipal  lodging-house 
this  evening,"  Benton  continued.  "  This  is  the  first 
cold  spell.  There  is  always  a  good  story  there  on  such 
a  night.  The  morning  papers  will  have  the  news. 
See  if  you  cannot  pick  up  a  feature  that  will  hold  good 
for  the  early  editions  to-morrow." 

122 


THE  ROAD  TO  NOWHERE          123 

Benton  was  only  thirty  years  old.  He  had  been 
married  twice.  His  first  wife  died  in  childbirth.  His 
second  wife  was  a  chorus  girl  and  he  divorced  her. 
His  temples  were  gray,  in  spite  of  the  youthfulness  of 
his  face.  He  had  a  peculiar  sense  for  stories  about 
tragedy  and  misfortune.  .  .  . 

The  young  reporter  was  profoundly  stirred  by  the 
scene  at  the  municipal  lodging-house.  Tottering,  gray- 
haired  men,  men  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  boys,  stood 
in  line  and  submitted  to  humiliating  scrutiny.  Name, 
home  address,  where  last  employed,  and  why  dis 
charged,  were  written  on  a  card  and  filed.  When  the 
registration  process  was  over  each  was  given  a  tin  cup 
of  coffee  and  a  piece  of  bread. 

Old  age  was  stripped  of  all  dignity  here,  manhood 
commanded  no  respect,  youth  emanated  no  charm. 

With  sickening  painfulness,  Witte,  for  the  first  time, 
became  aware  of  the  sinister  power  of  circumstances. 
It  took  but  a  single  keen  look  to  discern  and  separate 
the  few  derelicts  in  the  crowd  from  the  honest,  well- 
intentioned  working  men,  clerks  and,  here  and  there, 
even  a  professional  man.  These  men,  Witte  realized, 
were  men  like  himself,  like  his  father,  like  his  friends. 
The  difference  between  them  lay  solely  in  circum 
stances.  An  adverse  turn  of  the  wheel  and  he,  his 
father,  or  his  friends  might  be  standing  in  the  bread 
line,  answering  humilating  questions  for  the  sake  of 
a  cup  of  hot  coffee  and  a  shelter  from  the  fury  of 


124  WITTE  ARRIVES 

the  blizzard.  .  .  .  The  helplessness  of  the  individual 
in  modern  society  impressed  itself  upon  him  with  stag 
gering  force. 

As  he  stood  there  meditating,  men  continued  to  slink 
into  the  building  by  two's  and  three's.  Most  of  them 
had  no  overcoats.  They  fought  off  the  cold  as  best 
they  could  by  pinning  the  lapels  of  their  coats  tightly 
across  their  breasts.  Their  hands  bulging  out  of  their 
pockets  disclosed  chapped  and  bleeding  wrists.  Their 
teeth  chattered.  Their  drawn  faces  glistened  from 
cold.  .  .  . 

The  immense  pathos  of  the  situation  left  Witte  as 
suddenly  as  it  had  come  upon  him.  While  his  eyes 
were  still  looking  at  the  throng  of  homeless  men,  who 
were  now  being  piloted  one  by  one  to  their  cots,  his 
mind's  eye  was  seeing  another  scene.  He  saw  Christ 
mas  eve  in  the  country,  the  bells  "  answering  each 
other  in  the  mist "  and  ringing  out  the  message 

"  Peace  and  Goodwill,  Goodwill  and  Peace, 
Peace  and  Goodwill,  to  all  mankind." 

These  words  kept  ringing  in  his  ear  all  the  way  to 
his  room  on  the  north  side.  Still  under  the  influence 
of  Tennyson's  description  of  a  country  Christmas,  he 
began  to  write  the  story  of  the  municipal  lodging- 
house.  The  story  violated  the  first  and,  at  the  time, 
most  rigid  newspaper  rule.  It  did  not  tell  the  news 
in  the  first  paragraph.  But  it  painted  a  vivid  picture 


THE  ROAD  TO  NOWHERE         125 

of  the  lodging-house  and  its  nightly  occupants.  It 
told  of  the  lad  of  eighteen  who  longed  to  be  home  for 
Christmas.  It  told  of  an  old  man  searching  his 
faded  memory  for  the  name  of  the  town  where  a  mar 
ried  daughter  of  his  was  supposed  to  be  living.  It  told 
of  children  who  would  receive  no  Christmas  presents 
from  their  daddies,  because  their  daddies  were 
stranded,  homeless  and  hungry,  in  Chicago.  It  told 
of  wives  and  mothers  who  would  sit  down  to  a  cheer 
less  Christmas  dinner,  wondering  where  their  loved 
ones  were.  .  .  . 

The  story  stayed  on  the  first  page  of  every  edition 
of  the  paper. 

Some  weeks  later  there  was  a  strike  in  the  stock 
yards.  Twelve  thousand  Polish  and  Lithuanian  la 
borers  employed  by  one  of  the  packing  companies  were 
informed  that  their  wages,  already  small,  would  be 
reduced  ten  per  cent.,  and  they  struck.  The  reporters 
learned  that  the  company  had  no  intention  of  reducing 
wages.  But  there  were  agitators  at  work  among 
these  alien  laborers,  trying  to  organize  them  into  a 
union.  To  counteract  the  work  of  these  agitators  the 
company  precipitated  the  strike  by  announcing  that  it 
proposed  to  reduce  wages. 

Witte  reported  this  to  the  city  editor,  but  Benton 
listened  with  unmoved  face.  The  newspapers,  how 
ever,  were  not  unkind  to  the  strikers.  Because  of  the 
cold  weather  there  was  a  great  deal  of  suffering 


126  WITTE  ARRIVES 

among  the  foreigners  and  their  families.  This  made 
excellent  material  for  pathetic  stories. 

Benton  encouraged  Witte  to  dive  deep  into  the  well 
of  misery  in  the  "  Back  of  the  Yards  "  district,  where 
the  strikers  lived. 

The  Banner's  well-to-do  readers  on  the  avenues  read 
these  stories  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure.  There 
was  a  tug  at  the  heart  in  them.  Letters  praising  the 
Banner  for  its  big-hearted,  public-spirited  reports  of 
the  strike  kept  coming  into  the  office  and  were  con 
spicuously  printed  in  the  paper.  Neither  the  news 
paper,  which  printed  the  pathetic  stories,  nor  the  read 
ers  who  commended  the  paper  for  printing  them, 
thought,  however,  of  interceding  with  the  packing 
company  to  end  the  strike  and  the  misery  it  caused. 

When  the  heads  of  the  packing  concern  felt  certain 
that  their  employees  were  sufficiently  in  debt  to  have 
more  poignant  worries  on  hand  than  organization,  the 
strike  was  promptly  settled.  The  company  issued  a 
statement  saying,  "  While  business  conditions  are  such 
as  to  warrant  a  ten  per  cent,  cut  in  the  wages  of  our 
employees,  the  company  has  decided  to  take  the  bur 
den  entirely  upon  itself  and  will  stand  by  its  old  sched 
ule.  The  planned  wage  reduction  is  abandoned  as  a 
matter  of  public  policy  and  good  citizenship.  .  .  ." 

The  action  of  the  company  was  highly  praised  edi 
torially  by  some  of  the  newspapers.  It  was  held  up 
as  an  example  of  traditional  American  fairness.  .  .  . 


THE  ROAD  TO  NOWHERE         127 

Day  by  day  Chicago  thus  unfolded  itself  before 
Witte,  with  its  tragedies,  absurdities  and  brutalities. 
.  .  .  The  spirit  that  dominated  the  masses  everywhere, 
it  appeared  to  him,  was  one  of  fear.  Fear  of  the 
job  hovered  over  the  thousands  of  department  store 
girls.  It  hovered  over  the  white-collared  clerk  and 
anaemic  office  worker.  Fear  was  eating  men  like  a 
cancer.  It  was  present  on  every  festive  occasion.  It 
was  the  guest  of  honor  at  every  wedding.  It  sapped 
all  joy  out  of  life.  It  hung  like  a  cloud  over  child 
hood. 

Even  more  revolting  than  the  fear  that  stalked  over 
the  greater  part  of  Chicago  were  the  caste  lines  that 
unconsciously  divided  the  city.  A  caste  psychology 
had  sprung  up  in  the  city,  with  caste  customs  and  even 
caste  religion. 

For  miles  and  miles  on  the  west,  south  and  north 
sides  of  the  city  stretched  districts  of  a  sort  of  corned- 
beef-and-cabbage  caste.  The  cheapest,  most  unwhole 
some  food  was  eaten  here,  the  cheapest  finery  worn, 
the  cheapest  amusements  presented. 

Yes,  even  the  church  was  imperceptibly  invaded  by 
caste  lines  and  class  spirit.  The  sermons  preached  to 
laborers  were  of  the  old  order  of  theology.  The  sta 
ple  virtues  of  obedience  and  patience  were  extolled. 
The  sermons  addressed  to  working  men  at  the  be 
ginning  of  the  twentieth  century  savored  strongly  of 
the  spirit  of  the  middle  ages.  On  the  other  hand  in 


128  WITTE  ARRIVES 

the  churches  attended  by  men  and  women  belonging 
to  Chicago's  upper  caste,  the  porterhouse  caste,  one 
might  call  it,  the  "  newer "  theology  was  given  full 
sway.  Here  ministers  preached  on  the  higher  hu 
manities,  on  the  elevating  effects  of  science,  on  the  re 
fining  influence  of  art. 

Some  of  these  upper  caste  preachers  substituted 
now  and  then  a  reading  from  Browning  for  a  sermon. 
Others  even  flirted  with  Nietzsche  from  the  pulpit. 

It  occurred  to  Witte  that  these  aspects  of  society 
had  not  yet  been  treated  artistically  in  America. 
There  had  been  no  novel  written  about  the  hopeless 
helots  of  modern  industry.  There  was  room  for  an 
"  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  "  of  industry.  Why  not  write 
it? 

He  began  making  plans  for  a  book,  a  novel  that 
should  portray  the  Great  Fear  —  the  Fear  for  the  Job 
—  that  hovered  over  the  masses,  that  should  depict 
the  caste  lines  that  divide  American  society.  He 
would  paint  the  helplessness  of  the  modern  factory 
worker,  the  horror  and  despair  of  worklessness.  He 
would  make  these  poor  people  so  palpable  that  no  one 
would  mistake  them,  that  once  seen  they  could  not  be 
forgotten. 

In  the  midst  of  these  plans  he  was  called  by  the 
Morning  Ledger.  Witte  welcomed  this  change,  for 
although  it  entailed  more  work,  the  new  position  meant 
that  he  would  have  the  mornings  to  himself.  On  the 


THE  ROAD  TO  NOWHERE          129 

Ledger  he  did  not  report  for  work  until  half-past  one 
in  the  afternoon.  That,  he  thought,  would  give  him 
the  time  to  write  his  novel.  He  would  work  on  his 
book  mornings  when  his  mind  was  fresh. 

He  carried  his  plans  out  for  ten  mornings  in  suc 
cession  and  put  down  on  paper  five  thousand  words. 
Then  came  a  day  when  he  was  not  feeling  well.  His 
indisposition  lasted  for  nearly  a  week.  When  he  came 
back  to  his  book  he  felt  that  his  thoughts  were  color 
less  and  postponed  writing  for  a  few  more  days, 
waiting  for  his  ideas  to  clothe  themselves  in  bright, 
crisp  phrases.  But  the  crisp  phrases  refused  to  come. 
He  tore  up  page  after  page  of  his  writing  because  it 
was  commonplace. 

At  the  Reporters'  Club  he  confided  his  anxiety  to 
Sommers,  a  newspaper  man  older  than  himself  by 
three  or  four  years. 

"  It  cannot  be  done/'  was  Sommers'  ultimatum. 

"  I,  too,  tried  to  write,"  Sommers  added  gloomily, 
"  but  did  not  get  anywhere.  The  shop  eats  you  up. 
It  takes  whatever  fire  and  originality  you  have  out 
of  you.  If  you  want  to  write,  go  into  any  other  busi 
ness  but  newspaper  work,  unless  you  can  run  a  little 
country  paper  —  that  is  different." 

Witte  liked  Sommers.  He  liked  the  subdued  man 
ner  of  the  Yankee,  who  was  well  read  in  Emerson. 
Sommers  was  never  snobbish  and  often  appeared  to 
be  pathetically  lonely.  He  never  swaggered,  not  even 


130  WITTE  ARRIVES 

when  he  was  drunk.  In  this  respect  he  was  the 
antithesis  of  Pindell,  another  of  Chicago's  star  re 
porters. 

Pindell  was  the  life  of  the  club.  He  would  come 
there  about  eleven  in  the  morning,  drink  till  one-thirty, 
when  he  would  go  to  the  office  to  get  his  assignments 
for  the  day.  About  four  o'clock  he  would  be  back, 
sipping  high-balls  and  holding  forth  to  interested 
listeners  from  among  the  reporters  on  the  afternoon 
papers,  who  by  this  time  would  begin  to  fill  the  modest 
clubrooms. 

Time  and  again  a  messenger  would  come  with  a  call 
from  the  city  editor  of  his  paper  for  Pindell.  This 
increased  his  prestige.  There  were  few  reporters  in 
Chicago  who  drank  with  the  official  sanction  of  their 
bosses.  Pindell  was  one  of  these  rare  few,  because 
no  matter  how  drunk  he  was  he  would  never  let 
a  story,  or  even  an  important  point  in  a  story, 
slip. 

Pindell  was  holding  forth.  He  had  the  physique 
of  a  giant.  There  was  a  haughty  and  at  the  same  time 
keen  look  in  his  face,  as  if  to  say :  "I  can  see  through 
you  even  if  I  am  drunk." 

He  was  telling  a  piquant  story  about  a  Magdalen  he 
had  "  picked  up  at  Delmonte's."  He  had  been  bent  on 
finding  out  whether  the  girl  had  a  soul.  After  the 
sixth  highball  her  soul  came  to  the  surface.  She  wept 
on  his  shoulder  and  told  him  about  a  mother  she  had 


THE  ROAD  TO  NOWHERE          131 

not  seen  in  five  years,  a  mother  who  was  haunting  her 
nights.  And  that  was  why  she  never  could  stay  sober. 
.  .  .  He,  Pindell,  had  not  been  inclined  to  believe 
her  at  first.  But  her  tears  were  so  genuine,  and  she 
spoke  so  circumspectly  about  her  home  and  family, 
at  the  same  time  refraining  even  in  her  drunkenness 
from  mentioning  names  or  the  town  she  came  from, 
that  he  was  convinced  she  spoke  the  truth. 

"If  she  were  to  commit  suicide  to-night,  what  a 
fine  story  it  would  make/'  Pindell  reflected,  a  sad  irony 
playing  about  his  drooping  chin.  "  I'll  wager  I  could 
put  her  story  on  the  first  page  of  every  newspaper  in 
the  country  to-morrow  morning." 

Sommers  and  Witte  were  sitting  two  tables  distant 
from  the  one  occupied  by  Pindell  and  his  band  of 
listeners. 

"  It  is  this,"  said  Sommers,  "  that  makes  me  so 
weary  of  newspaper  life.  Look  at  Pindell  —  gifted, 
brilliant.  Yet  what  is  there  for  him  here?  Forty 
dollars  a  week,  affairs  with  Magdalens  and  drink.  As 
long  as  his  constitution  holds  out  he  is  holding  his  job 
and  is  perhaps  having  some  fun  in  life,  though  I  am 
not  so  sure  about  that  —  the  Great  Fear  haunts  him; 
he  holds  his  job  only  from  week  to  week.  Should  he 
break  down,  as  he  must,  he  will  join  the  great  number 
of  former  newspaper  satellites  in  this  town  who  once 
held  forth  exactly  as  he  does  now,  and  who  to-day  are 
glad  to  hang  on  to  some  insignificant  job  on  a  paper 


132  WITTE  ARRIVES 

and  eke  out  enough  to  pay  for  their  board,  room  and 
medicine." 

"  There  was  a  time,"  he  continued,  pronouncing  his 
words  slowly,  "  when  newspaper  work  led  somewhere. 
To-day  newspaper  work  leads  to  nothing  but  drink. 
It  is  the  road  to  nowhere.  It  no  longer  even  lays 
claim  to  art.  It  has  been  too  much  commercialized  for 
that.  The  newspaper  writing  of  to-day  is  as  removed 
from  artistic  work  as  tombstone  cutting  is  from  sculp 
ture.  Newspaper  work  crushes  art,  crushes  idealism. 
It  unfits  a  man  for  sustained  work  because  it  makes  him 
too  cynical  to  make  sacrifices.  Drink  is  about  the 
only  relief  the  genius  of  the  profession  has.  That  is 
why  our  best  writers  drink  themselves  to  death. 
Every  newspaper  office  is  a  graveyard  of  shattered 
illusions." 

Sommers  grew  morose  as  he  spoke,  a  mood  of  his 
with  which  Witte  was  familiar.  He  stared  vacantly 
for  some  moments,  then  added  dreamily  : 

"  Some  of  these  days  I  shall  take  the  road.  I  shall 
go  to  the  country,  to  some  small  town.  I  want  a  home 
there  with  a  patch  of  ground  back  of  it  and  a  lawn  and 
flower  bed  in  front.  And  I  want  a  wife  in  that  home 
who  would  never  even  suspect  all  that  I  know,  all  that 
I  have  seen  of  life,  a  wife  who  goes  to  bed  at  ten  and 
rises  at  seven,  who  does  not  '  take  her  dinners  out/ 
who  does  not  know  how  to  sign  waiters'  checks,  who 
goes  to  church  and  kneels  in  prayer  and  feels  better 


THE  ROAD  TO  NOWHERE          133 

for  having  done  so  —  I  am  sick  of  the  city.  .  .  .  Sick 
of  its  painted  women  and  wise  landladies  and  smirk 
ing  waiters — " 

Sommers  rose  to  go  to  the  office.  Witte  remained 
alone  and  was  pondering  over  the  latter's  words  and 
over  his  book,  plans  for  which  were  becoming  more 
and  more  tangled  and  complex.  It  was  his  day  off 
and  he  could  sit  at  the  club  as  long  as  he  liked.  He 
rang  for  the  waiter.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    NEW   YEAR 

THE  outburst  on  the  part  of  Sommers  was  not 
new  to  Witte.  Other  newspaper  men  com 
plained  about  their  profession  fully  as  vehemently. 
They  called  the  occupation  of  a  newspaper  writer  a 
blind  alley,  fretted  and  vowed  they  would  get  away 
from  it  at  the  first  opportunity  that  offered  itself. 

"  It  is  part  of  the  newspaper  man's  life,"  a  middle- 
aged  copy  reader  once  remarked  to  Witte,  with  a 
crooked  little  laugh,  "  to  assail  his  profession,  to  dream 
of  a  farm  or  a  country  paper.  I  bought  a  half  dozen 
acres  once  myself  and  ran  a  chicken  farm  for  a  while. 
I  was  going  to  enjoy  nature  and  the  quiet  life;  to  go 
to  bed  with  the  stars  and  rise  with  the  sun.  After 
some  months  it  began  to  pall  on  me.  In  less  than  a 
year  I  was  in  Chicago  again,  working  for  twenty-five 
dollars  a  week  on  the  copy  desk  of  a  morning  paper 
and  renewing  my  acquaintances  with  the  bartenders 
along  the  row.  The  work  calls,  and  the  call  is 
strong.  .  .  ." 

The  atmosphere  of  the  club  had  become  dense  with 
smoke.  Emil  climbed  half  a  flight  of  stairs  to  the 

134 


THE  NEW  YEAR  135 

sidewalk.  It  was  a  warm  September  night.  He 
swung  aboard  a  street  car  going  to  an  amusement  park 
at  the  edge  of  the  city. 

In  the  overcrowded  car  young  couples  were  eyeing 
each  other  hungrily.  Here  and  there  a  youth  had  his 
arm  about  a  girl's  shoulders  or  waist.  Everything 
in  the  car  breathed  the  atmosphere  of  love  and  desire. 
Emil  thought  of  Lena. 

He  had  not  written  to  her  for  six  months.  And 
what  pains  he  had  gone  through  to  refrain  from  writ 
ing  !  To  Lena  he  was  already  a  made  man,  a  success. 
She  could  not  conceive  of  a  writer  on  the  Chicago 
Ledger  as  otherwise  than  big  and  successful.  Her 
last  letters  to  him  were  full  of  tenderness.  There 
was  unbounded  confidence  in  them  for  Witte,  faith  in 
his  ability,  and  tender  expectancy.  ...  In  excited 
moments  Lena  pictured  Emil  as  her  knight,  who  would 
come  and  carry  her  off  with  him  to  the  big  city  and 
introduce  her  to  its  turbulent  and  fascinating  life. 
She  asked  him  much  about  his  life  in  Chicago,  the 
"  Bohemian  life  of  the  writer/'  as  she  once  phrased 
it. 

And  how  Emil  would  have  liked  to  be  that  knight ! 
How  he  would  have  liked  to  come,  take  Lena  away 
with  him,  away  from  everybody,  and  have  her  all  to 
himself,  to  talk  to  her,  to  confide  in  her.  .  .  . 

But  what  was  the  use!  He  was  a  twenty-dollar-a- 
week  reporter.  His  daily  bread  depended  upon  a 


136  WITTE  ARRIVES 

thousand  whims.  The  city  editor  was  the  arbiter  of 
his  fortune.  And  what  a  fickle  arbiter  he  was!  A 
little  better  story  by  a  rival,  a  scoop  by  another  paper, 
and  off  came  the  reporter's  head.  Clearly,  under  such 
circumstances,  with  so  unsteady  a  job,  a  man  could  not 
think  of  marriage,  could  not  think  of  settling  down. 

In  such  moods  Witte  would  cast  about  for  a  place 
with  some  permanency  in  it.  He  wrote  to  several 
weeklies  in  the  East.  A  good  literary  weekly  would 
give  him  an  opportunity  to  show  his  ability,  he  mused. 
There  would  be  a  chance  on  such  a  weekly  to  do  some 
thing  in  the  way  of  literary  criticism  that  would  attract 
attention.  ...  In  the  meantime,  however,  he  would 
wait  While  waiting  for  the  job  with  a  future,  with 
permanency,  Witte  refrained  from  writing  to  Lena. 

He  slept  ill  that  night.  When  he  awoke  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  fragrance  of  Lena's  hair  filled  the 
room.  .  .  .  He  recalled  that  he  had  not  been  home 
for  more  than  a  year.  At  the  first  opportunity  he 
would  take  a  few  days  off  and  would  visit  his  parents. 
He  would  speak  to  the  city  editor  about  it  at  once. 
He  would  go  home  within  two  weeks. 

The  thought  braced  him.  He  began  to  dress 
briskly.  He  stepped  out  into  the  hall  and  looked  over 
the  mail.  There  was  a  letter  for  him  from  his  father, 
but  it  was  bulkier  than  usual.  It  contained  a  New 
Year's  card.  That  very  evening  the  Hebrew  New 
Year  (Rosh  Hashonoh)  would  be  ushered  in. 


THE  NEW  YEAR  137 

In  his  letter  Aaron  expressed  his  and  Masha's  regret 
that  Emil  could  not  be  with  them  on  this  holy  day. 
The  other  children  would  be  there,  Clara,  her  husband 
and  their  children,  his  brother  Harry  and  his  family. 
There  was  a  mute  appeal  in  the  letter  for  Witte  to  come 
home.  With  the  appeal,  however,  went  a  pathetic 
note  of  resignation,  as  if  Aaron  knew  that  his  wish 
could  not  be  granted. 

The  Hebrew  felicitations  on  the  New  Year's  card 
brought  back  to  Emil  his  childhood  in  the  old  world 
and  the  awe  which  the  New  Year  then  inspired.  He 
had  long  since  outlived  that  awe.  Darwin,  Spencer, 
Georg  Brandes  had  played  havoc  with  the  faith  of 
his  fathers. 

Rosh  Hashonoh,  however,  had  its  human  side,  and 
that  appealed  to  Emil.  In  the  Synagogue  (there  was 
a  synagogue  in  Spring  Water  by  this  time)  all  the 
people  he  knew  would  be  gathered  that  evening  and 
the  following  morning.  .  .  .  Lena  would  be  there  — 
An  instant  decision  flashed  through  his  brain.  He 
packed  his  bag  and  hastily  made  for  the  office. 

The  city  editor  wondered  what  brought  him  down 
so  early.  Had  he  a  morning  assignment  ?  No.  But 
he  had  an  urgent  call  to  come  home. 

"  Sickness,"  Witte  stammered,  as  he  perceived  the 
dubious  look  in  the  city  editor's  face.  He  got  the 
desired  two  days'  leave. 

The  Witte  family  was  sitting  about  the  table  upon 


138  WITTE  ARRIVES 

which  towered  a  five-branched  candlestick.  Aaron 
addressed  himself  constantly  to  one  or  to  the  other  of 
his  children.  He  looked  especially  after  his  little 
grandchildren.  Clara  had  two  boys,  and  Harry  a 
girl  and  a  boy.  One  of  Clara's  boys  bore  a  close  re 
semblance  to  his  brother  Simeon,  and  Aaron  occupied 
himself  with  this  grandson  constantly.  .  .  . 

Clara  mentioned  Emil's  name.  She  wondered 
where  he  was  at  that  hour  and  whether  he  was  work 
ing  on  the  holy  day.  For  an  answer  Aaron  tugged 
at  his  mustache.  Masha  slunk  back  into  the  kitchen 
and  stealthily  wiped  away  a  tear. 

The  conversation  at  the  table  was  becoming  ani 
mated.  Alex  was  making  jokes  at  the  expense  of 
Harry's  wife,  Hanna.  A  lively  repartee  arose  be 
tween  them.  It  was  brought  to  a  halt  by  a  knock  at 
the  door.  Before  Masha  had  time  to  rise  from  her 
chair,  the  door  flew  open,  and  Emil  stood  before 
them. 

Had  Emil  been  the  sole  survivor  of  a  ship  that  had 
gone  down  in  midocean  he  could  not  have  been  given 
a  more  pathetic  welcome.  Masha  clasped  her  arms 
about  him  and  again  and  again  kissed  his  face.  Aaron 
himself  was  nigh  unto  tears. 

The  evening  meal  lasted  until  nearly  ten  o'clock. 
Not  in  years  had  the  Witte  home  seen  such  a  delight 
ful  evening.  Masha  was  all  excitement  and  happi 
ness.  Aaron  sat  listening  to  the  happy  chatter  of  his 


THE  NEW  YEAR  139 

children  with  beaming  face.  Alex  was  the  leader  in 
the  conversation.  As  a  former  Chicagoan  he  ques 
tioned  Emil  about  a  thousand  different  things  and 
places. 

Then  came  the  news  of  Spring  Water :  Clara  was 
telling  that.  Emil  listened  to  a  lot  of  irrelevant  things, 
while  his  mind  was  searching  for  something  else. 
Clara  turned  on  him  suddenly. 

Had  he  heard  that  Lena  Rosen  was  going  to  be 
married?  And  to  whom?  He  could  not  guess  in  a 
thousand  years.  The  girl  was  engaged  to  the  middle- 
aged  Mr.  Bobrick,  the  owner  of  a  department  store  in 
a  neighboring  town.  It  was,  of  course,  Mrs.  Rosen's 
doings.  Bobrick  was  worth  close  to  half  a  million 
dollars.  Poor  Lena  was  simply  a  puppet  in  her  moth 
er's  hands. 

As  Clara  was  speaking  about  Lena,  Masha  watched 
Emil's  face  from  which  all  cheerfulness  had  fled.  Her 
son's  evident  pain  communicated  itself  to  the  mother's 
heart.  ...  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  Emil  had  never 
confided  his  feelings  toward  Lena  to  any  one,  his 
mother  knew  what  these  feelings  were.  She  had 
guessed  them  from  the  visits  which  Lena  had  been 
making  to  the  Witte  home,  the  suppressed  eagerness 
with  which  the  girl  inquired  about  Emil  — 

With  the  news  of  Lena's  engagement  Emil's  visit 
to  Spring  Water  seemed  to  have  lost  all  meaning.  He 
wished  himself  on  the  train  again,  and  in  Chicago. 


140  WITTE  ARRIVES 

Instead,  however,  he  took  the  candle  from  his  mother's 
hand  and  went  upstairs  — 

His  room  was  unchanged,  as  if  it  had  been  waiting 
for  him  all  this  time.  The  books  were  standing  in 
the  bookcases  precisely  as  he  had  left  them.  On  a 
shelf  lay  bundles  of  compositions  and  themes  —  the 
themes  which  had  first  awakened  in  him  the  desire  to 
write. 

He  stood  for  some  time  looking  over  the  books  and 
tablets,  trying  to  decipher  here  and  there  his  own 
notes,  to  read  his  own  writing.  A  strange  loneliness 
came  over  him,  and  a  feeling  of  futility.  Of  what 
use  was  all  this  studying  and  hard  work?  Why  had 
he  wasted  his  youth  poring  over  books?  Was  it  only 
to  be  unfitted  to  gain  the  sweetest  prize  in  life  — 
Lena?  He  had  no  bitterness  against  the  girl.  Had 
she  not  given  him  ample  evidence  of  love?  It  was 
he  who  ceased  writing  to  her  because  he  did  not  feel 
equal  to  the  task  of  settling  down,  because  of  his  job, 
which  was  like  shifting  sand,  because  of  the  work  for 
which  he  had  been  fitted  by  these  books  and  study  — 
work  that  is  unsettled  and  uncertain. 

He  sat  down  at  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  surren 
dered  himself  to  torturing  thoughts.  Everything 
ahead  of  him  seemed  hazy.  What  was  the  meaning 
of  his  struggles  and  hardships?  Lena  would  never 
be  his  — 

He  groaned. 


THE  NEW  YEAR  1411 

His  mother's  footsteps  —  he  had  no  difficulty  in 
recognizing  them  —  became  audible.  Masha  walked 
in  and  sat  down  beside  him  on  the  bed.  He  did  not 
stir  from  his  place.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to 
utter  a  word.  It  was  his  mother  who  plied  him  with 
questions : 

Was  his  room  comfortable  in  the  city?  Were  his 
meals  regular?  And  was  he  sure  that  night  work 
was  not  injuring  his  health?  Ah,  those  American 
customs  —  whoever  heard  of  people  working  at  night 
instead  of  in  the  daytime! 

She  went  over  to  more  serious  and  intimate  ques 
tions.  Had  he  already  attained  the  things  he  aimed 
at?  Was  he  secure  in  his  place  now?  Would  he 
be  able  to  settle  down  soon —  She  would  so  like  to 
see  him  settled.  It  was  time.  Harry  had  married 
when  he  was  several  years  younger  than  he.  All  of 
his  schoolmates  were  now  married.  Several  of  them 
had  babies — • 

Mrs.  Witte  stopped  in  her  questions  and  waited  for 
an  answer.  But  no  answer  came.  Emil  sat  there 
pressing  the  palms  of  his  hands  against  his  face. 
Anxiety  seized  her.  Was  he  ill?  She  leaned  over 
closer  to  the  bent  form  of  her  son  and  perceived  the 
suppressed  heaving  of  his  shoulders.  Emil  wept  — 

He  saw  Lena  in  the  Synagogue  the  next  morning, 
but  had  no  opportunity  to  speak  to  her  until  after  the 


142  WITTE  ARRIVES 

services.  She  was  hemmed  in  between  Mrs.  Rosen 
and  a  man  in  the  forties,  who  had  at  least  sixty  pounds 
of  excess  flesh  on  his  body.  The  man  was  evidently 
very  warm  and  was  constantly  wiping  his  red  apo- 
pletic  neck  and  forehead  with  a  handkerchief.  It  was 
Lena's  fiance,  Mr.  Bobrick. 

They  met  near  the  door  and  the  first  word  Lena 
spoke  to  Emil  was  to  ask  him  to  come  over  that  after 
noon.  It  was  plain  that  this  was  foremost  in  her 
mind.  She  had  hardly  finished  her  sentence  when 
Mrs.  Rosen  was  at  her  side  with  Mr.  Bobrick.  Mrs. 
Rosen  greeted  Emil  with  seeming  cordiality,  but  her 
eyes  were  not  friendly.  Lena  did  not  introduce  her 
fiance  to  Emil,  and  in  fact  avoided  looking  in  his  di 
rection.  Mrs.  Rosen  at  once  introduced  Bobrick  to 
Emil  with  that  lack  of  formality  toward  the  latter 
which  might  have  made  her  Emil's  aunt. 

Witte  paid  no  attention  to  Mrs.  Rosen  and  quickly 
surveyed  Mr.  Bobrick.  The  department  store  owner 
had  a  good-natured  and  apologetic  smile.  It  was  evi 
dent  that  he  was  aware  of  his  shortcomings.  He  spoke 
English  not  only  with  an  accent,  but  ungrammati 
cally.  As  Lena's  older  brother,  or  uncle,  he  would 
have  been  in  place.  As  her  lover,  her  fiance  —  he  was 
a  travesty. 

Witte  was  too  much  absorbed  in  his  study  of  the 
man  for  words.  Bobrick,  on  the  other  hand,  did  not 
know  how  to  start  a  conversation  with  the  young 


THE  NEW  YEAR  1143 

man,  who  had  the  advantage  over  him  in  refinement 
and  ease  of  manners.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Rosen  put  an  end  to 
the  embarrassment  of  her  intended  son-in-law  by  bid 
ding  Emil  good  day  and  starting  off,  flanked  by  Lena 
on  one  side  and  by  Mr.  Bobrick  on  the  other. 

Witte  was  astonished  to  find  Lena  so  unhappy.  He 
had  never  believed  that  her  smiling  eyes  could  acquire 
such  a  crushed,  lifeless  look  in  them.  Her  face  was 
thin,  and  altogether  she  looked  as  if  she  had  been 
through  a  severe  illness. 

On  the  way  home  Emil  acquainted  his  father  with 
his  own  plans  and  problems :  The  road  which  he  had 
chosen,  the  road  to  a  literary  career,  was  no  easy  one. 
It  was  a  life  of  uncertainty.  There  was  no  likeli 
hood  of  his  being  in  a  position  to  settle  down  for  a 
good  while,  for  years  perhaps.  Aaron  listened  to 
everything  his  son  said  without  answering.  There 
was  nothing  he  could  say.  Here  was  a  case  where 
he  was  powerless  to  help  his  child.  His  heart  was 
bleeding.  .  .  . 

Emil  did  not  go  to  the  Rosens'  in  the  afternoon. 
Now  more  than  ever  he  could  not  alter  the  situation. 
If  it  were  madness  six  months  back  to  propose  to  Lena 
to  marry  him  on  twenty  dollars  a  week,  it  would  be 
greater  madness  now  to  put  his  trifling,  unstable  in 
come  as  a  newspaper  man  against  the  department  store 
owner,  Bobrick. 

The  following  afternoon  he  took  a  train  to  Chicago. 


144  WITTE  ARRIVES 

He  arrived  at  midnight  and  went  straight  to  the  Re 
porters'  Club.  The  men  from  the  morning  papers 
were  straggling  in  one  by  one.  He  pushed  a  button. 

"A  Swiss  cheese  sandwich  and  a  glass  of  beer," 
Witte  ordered,  without  lifting  his  face  from  the  table. 

"Yes,  sir,"  the  waiter  answered,  and  eyed  him 
queerly. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  DROWNING   WORLD 

NOW  that  he  could  no  longer  think  of  Lena  in 
terms  of  endearment,  night  became  a  torment 
to  him.  How  fill  out  the  hour  between  going  to  bed 
and  actual  falling  asleep  without  thinking  of  his  awful 
loss? 

Mrs.  Bloch,  whom  he  visited  on  his  first  day  off, 
found  that  he  looked  bad  and  began  showering  Witte 
with  solicitous  questions  about  his  health.  Assured 
that  there  was  nothing  the  matter  with  him,  she  in 
sisted  that  there  must  be  something  wrong  with  his 
room.  Anyway,  why  should  he  live  so  far  away  from 
them?  She  knew  a  young  couple  who  had  a  splendid 
room  to  rent.  He  would  feel  at  home  there  and  it  was 
only  around  the  corner  from  them. 

The  caressing,  motherly  talk  of  Mrs.  Bloch  acted 
like  a  balm.  In  her  presence  he  felt  as  if  he  were 
nearer  to  his  home,  to  his  parents.  He  went  to  look 
at  the  room  she  recommended.  It  was  a  splendid 
room.  The  people  were  friendly.  There  was  no 
boarding-house  atmosphere  about  it.  The  newness  of 
the  furniture,  the  freshness  of  the  linen  and  curtains 
soothed  his  aching  nerves.  He  took  it. 


146  WITTE  ARRIVES 

When  he  told  Sommers  a  few  days  later  that  he  was 
now  living  in  the  ghetto,  the  latter  grew  enthusiastic. 

"  It  is  a  great  idea/'  he  said.  "  There  is  lots  of 
atmosphere  there  —  real  information.  I  always  main 
tained  that  the  trouble  with  us  newspaper  men  is  that 
we  are  such  infernal  snobs.  We  do  not  mingle  with 
the  masses.  That  may  seem  paradoxical,  but  it  is 
true.  We  do  not  live  among  the  people.  We  asso 
ciate  only  with  each  other  in  narrow  cliques  or  cir 
cles.  Working  nights  we  never  get  a  chance  to  take 
out  a  girl  —  a  decent  girl,  I  mean.  We  do  not  even 
drink  with  the  people.  We  have  a  few  joints  we 
patronize.  The  people  we  meet  are  detached,  home 
less  individuals,  with  weary  souls  and  a  cynical  out 
look  upon  life." 

Sommers  rang  for  the  waiter  and  continued : 

"  With  all  our  reform  movements,  with  all  our  spas 
modic  interest  in  the  people,  we  have  not  said  a  new 
thing  about  the  masses  in  years.  The  New  York  Sun 
prints  a  story  about  people  on  the  East  Side  using 
their  bath  tubs  for  coal  bins,  and  every  city  editor  in 
Chicago  demands  from  his  reporters  just  such  stories, 
regardless  of  truth.  We  are  not  sent  out  to  study 
the  people,  but  to  get  a  story.  If  the  paper  wants  a 
sob  story,  we  must  sob,  and  if  the  paper  wants  a  mock 
story,  we  mock  the  people. 

"  The  same  trouble/'  Sommers  continued,  "  extends 
to  the  greater  part  of  our  present-day  literature.  We 


A  DROWNING  WORLD  147 

seldom  paint  real  people.     Most  of  our  present-day 
stories  seem  made  to  order,  manufactured." 


On  a  dull  Sunday  afternoon  the  following  spring, 
Witte,  while  waiting  for  an  assignment,  sat  down  at 
his  typewriter  and  wrote  a  column  story.  He  had 
conceived  the  idea  for  the  story  the  previous  evening. 
As  he  was  walking  home  through  the  tenement  streets 
shortly  before  midnight,  he  was  confronted  with  a 
strange  picture.  The  streets  were  deserted,  dead. 
Every  tenement  hallway,  however,  framed  the  bodies 
of  a  boy  and  a  girl.  Screened  by  the  veil  of  night, 
the  children  of  the  poor,  in  locked  embraces  and  with 
passionate  kisses,  were  dreaming  love's  ever-young 
'dream. 

Whimsically  Witte  wrote  over  the  top  page  of  the 
story  the  title,  "  Lovers'  Lanes  of  the  Tenements,"  and 
laid  the  manuscript  on  the  city  editor's  desk.  He  was 
called  a  few  minutes  later. 

"  There  is  no  news  angle  to  the  story/'  the  editor 
said,  "and  I  cannot  use  it  in  the  Ledger.  But  why 
don't  you  take  it  to  Mr.  Manning,  the  Sunday  editor  of 
the  Star?  He  buys  stories.  This  is  just  the  sort  of 
stuff  he  wants." 

The  following  afternoon  Witte  stood  in  the  private 
office  of  the  Sunday  editor  of  the  Star.  Near  a  table 
strewn  with  manuscripts  sat  a  man  of  forty,  his  feet, 
body  and  shoulders  humped  together  in  the  chair. 


148  WITTE  ARRIVES 

Without  changing  his  position  the  man  looked  up  and 
asked,  "What  is  it?" 

For  an  instant  Emil  thought  that  perhaps  he  had 
made  a  mistake,  and  the  individual  in  the  chair  was 
not  the  Star's  Sunday  editor.  He  had  heard  Man 
ning  spoken  of  with  a  kind  of  awe  by  newspaper  men. 
He  recalled,  however,  stories  that  were  circulated 
about  Manning's  eccentricities  as  well  as  his  genius, 
and  decided  that  he  must  be  in  the  presence  of  the 
famous  editor.  He  handed  him  the  manuscript. 

Manning  glanced  at  the  heading,  ate  his  eyes 
into  the  first  page,  turned  it  over  and  glanced  at  the 
second  page,  third,  and  tossed  the  story  upon  a  heap 
of  manuscripts  to  one  side  of  the  table;  the  entire 
process  taking  less  than  a  minute. 

"  I'll  use  it,"  he  said,  casting  a  rapid  glance  at  the 
man  before  him  and  reaching  out  for  another  manu 
script.  During  all  this  performance  he  had  not 
changed  his  position  in  the  chair  in  the  slightest. 

Witte  stood  motionless.  He  was  delighted.  He 
wanted  to  say  something,  to  talk  to  Manning.  But  the 
Sunday  editor  seemed  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  a  man 
was  standing  in  front  of  him.  His  eyes  were  on  the 
manuscript  into  which  he  was  jabbing  his  pencil. 
Witte  slipped  out  of  the  room.  His  "  Good  day  "  had 
not  been  answered. 

He  submitted  stories  regularly  to  Manning  there 
after. 


A  DROWNING  WORLD  149 

"  Working  any  place?  "  Manning  turned  upon  him 
once  as  he  laid  down  a  manuscript. 

"  Yes,  on  the  Ledger,"  Witte  responded. 

On  another  occasion  Manning  spoke  to  him  some 
what  longer. 

One  morning  Witte  found  a  note  from  Manning, 
asking  him  to  corrte  and  see  him. 

"  Would  you  like  to  go  to  work  for  us  ?  "  the  edi 
tor  asked,  ignoring  Witte's  "  Good  morning." 

And  before  Witte  had  framed  an  answer  he  began 
inquiring  about  his  education,  experience,  the  books 
he  read.  He  did  not  ask  about  his  nationality.  But 
he  asked  how  old  he  was  when  he  came  to  America. 

"  Ten  years,"  said  Witte. 

"  You  must  be  having  a  pretty  vivid  recollection  of 
the  old  world  then,"  Manning  presumed. 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer  from  Witte  the  edi 
tor  began  to  dilate  on  the  subject  of  Witte's  job  with 
the  Sunday  Star  and  its  opportunities. 

"Our  work  here  is  different,"  Manning  said. 
"You  are  pretty  much  your  own  boss.  You  will  be 
required  to  give  about  eight  hours  a  day  to  the  paper. 
The  rest  of  the  time  you  can  use  at  your  own  discre 
tion.  There  are  no  definite  hours  for  work.  You 
can  come  and  go  as  you  please." 

The  editor  took  it  for  granted  that  Witte  had  am 
bitions  to  become  a  magazine  writer.  He  could  see 
this,  he  said,  by  his  stuff.  It  was  not  of  course  per- 


150  WITTE  ARRIVES 

feet  writing  Witte  was  turning  in.  It  was  in  fact 
far  from  being  up  to  the  standard  of  the  Sunday  Star. 
But  he,  Manning,  knew  that  Witte  could  come  up  to 
the  standard.  That  is  why  he  was  hiring  him.  As 
for  Witte,  this  was  his  golden  opportunity.  Work  on 
a  Sunday  paper  was  leading  directly  into  the  maga 
zines.  It  would  give  him  a  style  and  would  open  up 
vast  stores  of  material  for  him. 

Saying  this,  Manning  smiled.  It  was  the  first  time 
Witte  had  seen  him  smile.  It  was  a  whole-souled 
smile  like  that  of  a  child.  Witte  felt  that  Manning 
was  a  man  to  trust.  He  could  not  conceive  of  his  tak 
ing  advantage  of  one. 

The  Sunday  editor  then  casually  brought  up  the 
question  of  salary.  How  much  was  Witte  getting? 
Twenty  a  week?  Manning  supposed  as  much. 
Witte  was  not  in  his  present  state  worth  more  than 
twenty  dollars  a  week  to  the  Sunday  Star.  However, 
in  order  to  make  it  worth  while,  financially,  for  him  to 
leave  the  Ledger,  he  would  give  him  $22.50. 

Emil  accepted  the  wage  without  further  argument, 
much  to  the  surprise  of  the  editor,  who  expected  to 
pay  him  at  least  thirty  dollars  a  week,  and  who  put 
forth  the  $22.50  figure  merely  as  "  a  feeler." 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Manning  when  Witte  presented 
himself  for  work  the  following  Monday. 

The  Sunday  editor  paced  up  and  down  his  little 
room  several  times  as  if  looking  for  something.  As 


A  DROWNING  WORLD  151 

he  did  so  Witte  observed  the  man.  He  was  of  medium 
height,  sparely  built,  and  with  a  slight  stoop.  His 
clothes,  while  of  good  material,  were  baggy.  The 
top  of  one  of  his  shoes  was  cracked  and  they  looked 
as  if  they  had  not  been  polished  in  weeks.  As  Man 
ning  seated  himself  in  his  chair  Witte  finished  his  men 
tal  portrait  of  the  man.  He  had  a  strangely  built 
forehead.  It  was  wide  and  roomy,  and  all  the  time 
Witte  looked  at  him  he  could  not  escape  the  feeling 
that  the  head  was  much  too  large  for  Manning's  frail 
body.  The  editor's  eyes  were  roving,  but  thought 
was  concentrated  in  them  continuously.  .  .  .  The 
mouth  had  an  indifferent,  sarcastic  droop.  .  .  . 

Manning  ran  his  fingers  through  the  pages  of  a 
little  magazine.  It  was  a  Socialist  weekly. 

"  An  editorial  here,"  he  jabbed  his  scissors  in  the 
booklet  and  clipped  the  editorial,  "takes  the  writers 
of  to-day  to  task.  Tons  of  paper,  says  this  editorial, 
are  devoted  by  American  newspapers  every  Sunday 
to  descriptions  of  the  homes  of  the  rich,  to  dinners 
given  to  monkeys,  to  pictures  of  society  ladies  and 
their  cats  and  dogs.  The  newspapers,  the  writer 
further  charges,  scour  the  capitals  of  Europe  for  a 
bit  of  gossip  about  royalty.  But  they  have  not  a  word 
to  say  about  our  tenement  homes,  about  our  millions 
of  submerged  men,  women  and  children,  about  our 
slums. 

"  *  A  world  is  drowning  in  tears/  "  Manning  con- 


152  WITTE  ARRIVES 

eluded,  reading  the  last  two  lines  of  the  editorial  ver 
batim,  "  '  and  the  American  press  is  blind  to  it.  It  has 
no  eyes  for  the  despair  and  suffering  of  our  own 
masses!'" 

The  editor  gazed  into  space  for  some  moments  then 
turned  to  Witte: 

"  I  want  you  to  go  out  and  find  this  '  drowning 
world '  for  us,  for  the  Sunday  Star.  Find  for  me 
the  submerged  the  Socialist  writer  speaks  of,  find  them 
individually.  Go  out  and  talk  with  the  old  man  out 
of  a  job,  with  the  widow  who  bends  over  the  washtub, 
and  write  their  stories.  Whenever  possible  get  their 
pictures.  We  will  print  these  stories  and  pictures 
in  the  Sunday  Star.  Some  of  this  suffering  of  which 
the  Socialist  writer  complains  may  be  needless.  It 
may  be  alleviated.  But  whether  it  can  be  alleviated 
or  not  we  want  to  know  about  it,  the  Sunday  Star 
.wants  to  know  it,  its  readers  ought  to  know  it." 

After  a  brief  silence  Manning  continued: 

"  You  can  write  anything  you  like  —  provided  it  is 
interesting.  We  will  print  anything  —  provided  it  is 
true.  Be  sure  of  your  facts  and  keep  opinions,  your 
opinions,  other  men's  opinions,  out  of  the  story.  I 
don't  care  for  what  you  think,  I  care  for  what  you 


see." 


Another  brief  silence  and  the  editor  went  on : 
"  If  there  are  any  mothers  in  this  town  who  have 
no  milk  for  their  babies,  find  them.     If  there  are  chil- 


A  DROWNING  WORLD  153 

dren  who  do  not  go  to  school  because  they  have  no 
shoes  or  clothing  or  because  they  have  to  work  to 
help  support  the  family,  find  them.  Tell  the  public 
about  them,  but  just  tell  —  don't  make  the  mistake 
which  the  Socialist  writer  of  this  editorial  makes, 
which  all  Socialists  make,  don't  scold.  Don't  preach. 
Don't  try  to  get  into  an  argument.  Just  paint  a  pic 
ture  and  leave  it  there.  Preaching  is  nothing  —  it  is 
not  taken  seriously,  in  the  first  place,  and  is  soon  for 
gotten  in  the  next.  A  picture,  if  it  is  well  done,  burns 
itself  into  the  brain.  The  reader  will  never  forget 
it.  It  is  more  effective  than  all  the  oratory  in  the 
world.  It  is  the  best  propaganda. 

"  You  are  a  Socialist  — "  Manning  began  again 
with  a  faint,  ironic  twinge  of  his  lips.  An  uneasy 
look  appeared  in  Witte's  eyes. 

"  I  am  not  worrying  about  your  political  convic 
tions/'  the  editor  said  hurriedly,  as  if  fearing  that 
Witte  might  make  some  impolitic  reply.  "  The  Star 
does  not  pry  into  the  opinions  of  its  employees.  You 
can  be  a  Socialist  —  anything,  so  long  as  you  keep 
your  wits  about  you.  If  you  take  orders  and  carry 
them  out  satisfactorily,  your  private  views  are  no  con 
cern  to  the  paper." 

Growing  confidential  Manning  added  with  the  kind 
of  smile  which  made  his  face  fairly  childlike  in  its  sin 
cerity  : 

"  I  am  a  static.     When  you  have  been  in  newspaper 


154  WITTE  ARRIVES 

work  as  long  as  I,  you  will  become  a  static,  too  — 
However,  this  is  not  what  I  meant  to  say  — 

"  The  Star  is  a  big  newspaper  —  it  is  an  institution 
in  Chicago.  It  is  not  out,  of  course,  to  gain  recruits 
for  Socialism,  but  it  does  want  to  know  the  truth. 
It  must  know  the  truth  and  must  tell  it  to  its  readers. 
If  people  are  starving  in  this  city  we  want  to  know  it. 
Ignorance  is  far  more  dangerous  than  truth.  It  is 
more  dangerous  than  Socialism/' 

Manning  checked  himself.  Apparently  he  had 
talked  more  freely  than  he  was  wont  to  talk  to  report 
ers.  In  a  dry,  matter-of-fact  voice,  he  added: 

"  Look  into  the  '  Back  of  the  Yards '  district  first. 
There  are  fifty  thousand  people,  foreigners,  living 
there.  Sinclair  got  his  'Jungle'  out  of  that  district; 
see  if  you  cannot  get  a  page  story  with  pictures  for 
Sunday." 

With  this  he  dismissed  the  reporter  for  the  day. 

The  stories  of  "  the  other  half  "  which  now  ap 
peared  regularly  in  the  pages  of  the  Sunday  Star  pro 
voked  wide  comment.  Richly  gowned  ladies  drove 
their  limousines  through  tenement  lanes  or  stopped  in 
front  of  shacks,  and  searching  out  the  families  who 
were  mentioned  in  the  Star  as  being  in  distress,  helped 
them  with  money  and  clothes.  Here  and  there  a 
widow  was  given  easier  work,  a  crippled  old  man  was 
taken  as  a  gardener  into  the  country  by  a  gentleman 
of  Chicago's  upper  set. 


A  DROWNING  WORLD  155 

The  Star  made  the  most  of  these  occurrences  and 
never  missed  the  opportunity  of  calling  attention  to 
its  "  humanity,"  to  boast  of  its  "  social  service,"  and  to 
advertise  its  kindness. 

"Letters  to  the  editor,"  came  in  large  numbers. 
During  the  first  few  weeks  Manning  showed  some  of 
these  letters  to  Witte  and  encouraged  him  to  keep  on 
getting  just  such  stories. 

Then  for  months  and  months  there  apparently  came 
not  a  single  letter  in  praise  of  these  articles.  This 
was  all  the  stranger  since  Witte  had  had  during  that 
time  several  strongly  pathetic  stories  in  the  paper. 

Witte  remarked  about  this  to  Norton,  the  man  sit 
ting  at  the  desk  next  to  his.  Norton  had  been  with 
the  Sunday  Star  for  three  years.  He  was  friendly  to 
Witte. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Norton,  looking  somewhat  dubi 
ously  at  the  reporter  beside  him,  as  if  to  say:  "  Are 
you  really  such  a  simpleton,  or  do  you  merely  pre 
tend?" 

But  Witte  was  not  pretending  and  Norton  went 
on: 

"  Letters  are  coming  in  all  right.  But  Manning 
does  not  want  to  show  you  these  letters." 

"Why  not?"  asked  Witte. 

Norton  laughed  indulgently. 

"  Don't  you  see,"  he  said,  "  that  if  he  keeps  on 
showing  you  these  letters,  showing  you  how  your 


156  WITTE  ARRIVES 

stories  take  with  the  people,  you  might  ask  for  a  raise 
in  wages?  And  getting  a  raise  on  the  Star,  and  es 
pecially  from  Manning,  is  as  difficult  a  matter  as  for 
some  of  our  captains  of  industry  to  enter  the  kingdom 
of  heaven." 

Norton  knew  whereof  he  was  speaking.  He  was 
a  man  of  thirty  and  had  broken  engagements  three 
times  because  of  the  utter  impossibility  of  squeezing 
a  raise  from  his  employers  at  the  time  he  needed  the 
raise. 

Witte  began  to  notice  a  change  in  the  Sunday  edi 
tor's  demeanor  toward  him.  Manning  would  give 
him  a  look  in  passing  which  chilled  him  to  the  bone. 
After  such  a  look  he  felt  that  he  would  be  called  into 
the  office  the  next  minute  and  dismissed. 

He  wondered  what  might  have  offended  the  Sun 
day  editor.  But  nowhere  could  he  find  an  explanation. 
He  confided  his  embarrassment  to  Norton.  The  latter 
laughed. 

"  Oh,  well,"  he  said,  "  that  is  just  a  pose  of  Man 
ning's.  There  is  an  object  in  it,  however.  He  likes  to 
take  a  man  down,  so  to  speak,  once  in  a  while,  to  make 
him  feel  that  he  is  nothing,  insignificant,  that  his  serv 
ices  are  of  a  most  ordinary  kind  and  can  be  dispensed 
with  at  any  minute." 

Spring  came.  Manning  dropped  a  remark  that  this 
was  a  good  time  for  stories  about  children.  Witte 
wrote  a  story  about  the  deadliest  block  in  Chicago  — 


A  DROWNING  WORLD  157 

the  block  where  the  death  rate  among  children  was  the 
highest  in  the  city  during  the  summer  months.  He 
laid  the  story  on  the  editor's  table  and  went  back  to 
his  desk. 

He  was  called  a  few  moments  later. 

"  You  are  libeling  a  whole  district,"  Manning  ex 
ploded.  "  No  one  but  the  health  commissioner  can 
make  such  charges.  You  are  damning  a  whole  com 
munity." 

The  story  had  in  fact  been  based  upon  figures  of 
the  health  department.  The  statements  in  it  were  com 
paratively  mild.  There  was  no  libel  in  it. 

Witte  knew  these  things  and  was  going  to  say  so 
to  the  editor.  But  he  changed  his  mind.  It  could 
not  have  escaped  Manning's  eye  that  the  story  was 
quoting  a  prominent  official  of  the  health  department. 
He  waited,  expecting  to  get  the  story  back  with  in 
structions  as  to  its  rewriting.  But  Manning  did  not 
return  the  story  to  him.  He  laid  it  to  one  side. 

Later  in  the  afternoon  Witte  and  Norton  met  in  a 
near-by  barroom. 

Witte  narrated  the  outburst  of  the  Sunday  editor. 

"  You'd  better  be  on  your  guard,"  Norton  warned. 
"  There  is  trouble  ahead  for  you.  In  fact  there  is 
trouble  ahead  for  Manning,  too."  Witte  looked  up, 
uneasy. 

"  I  have  it  from  a  reliable  source,"  Norton  con 
tinued,  "that  some  of  the  directors  of  the  paper  are 


158  WITTE  ARRIVES 

displeased  with  your  stories.  You  understand,  of 
course,  that  they  permit  Manning  to  run  these  stories 
solely  because  there  is  good  circulation  in  them.  They 
don't  care  a  rap  about  their  humanity.  But  some  of 
the  directors  feel  that  your  stories  are  dangerous. 
You  see  too  deep.  One  of  them  called  you  an  an 
archist.  Manning  has  been  getting  some  hard  knocks 
on  account  of  you.  His  whole  policy  of  '  stirring  up 
the  beast,'  as  one  of  the  directors  referred  to  the  work 
ing  people  at  a  recent  meeting,  for  the  sake  of  circula 
tion,  is  looked  upon  with  disfavor." 
r  "  Is  Manning  merely  using  my  stuff  as  a  cat'spaw 
for  circulation  ?  "  Witte  asked. 

Norton  reflected  for  some  moments. 

"  Not  solely,"  he  answered.  "  Manning  is  a  re 
markable  man  and  a  great  editor.  He  thinks  that 
this  sort  of  writing,  writing  about  the  masses  and  their 
problems,  is  the  coming  phase  in  American  journal 
ism,,  and  he  wants  to  pioneer  in  that  sort  of  writing 
—  it  will  go  to  his  credit  as  an  editor.  Besides  he  is 
peculiar  in  certain  respects.  He  is  as  tender  as  a  child 
in  some  ways.  He  really  feels  for  the  poor.  He  likes 
to  read  about  their  troubles,  to  show  their  troubles. 
It  is  '  human  interest/  you  know." 

"  Do  you  think  I  had  better  look  for  another  job  — 
am  I  slated  to  go?  "  Witte  asked. 
.     "  I  would  not  say  that,"  Norton  added  thoughtfully. 
"Manning  usually  stands  by  the  man  he  hires.     Be- 


A  DROWNING  WORLD  159 

sides  in  this  case  he  is  convinced  that  he  is  right.  He 
told  a  number  of  people  that  he  considers  your  writing 
among  the  most  vital  stuff  in  the  paper.  They  are 
putting  the  screws  on  him  and  he  will  probably  put  the 
screws  on  you.  But  he  will  not  let  you  go.  Anyway, 
wait  and  see  what  happens." 


CHAPTER  XII 

MARRIAGE 

THE  article,  under  the  heading  "  The  Deadliest 
Block  in  Chicago/'  appeared  in  the  Sunday  Star 
just  as  Witte  had  written  it.    Apparently  things  had 
blown  over. 

.One  Saturday  afternoon  the  Sunday  editor  called 
Witte  into  his  office.     Only  one  or  two  men  sat  abouT 
their  desks.     The  majority  of   the   staff  had  gone 
home. 

"  Sit  down,"  Manning  said,  and  proceeded  to  make 
himself  comfortable  in  his  own  chair,  a  process  which 
consisted  of  twisting  and  bending  his  limbs  until  he 
assumed  a  position  not  unlike  that  assumed  by  Ma- 
homedans  when  they  sit  down  to  pray. 

"  What  have  you  on  your  mind  for  the  coming 
week?"  he  asked. 

Witte  suggested  a  number  of  ideas  for  articles. 

"Those  are  all  good  stories,"  the  editor  said. 
"  Keep  them  for  later.  There  is  something  else  I 
want  you  to  do  now.  How  many  foreign  nationali 
ties  are  there  in  Chicago/' 

"  Twenty,  possibly  more." 

160 


MARRIAGE  161 

Manning  pondered.     Then  spoke  rapidly : 

"  No  two  persons  on  this  earth  are  alike.  Still  there 
are  certain  distinct  characteristics  common  to  the  men 
and  especially  to  the  women  of  each  nation.  Suppose 
you  go  out  and  discover  what  the  distinguishing  char 
acteristics  of  the  women,  of  the  girls,  of  each  of  the 
twenty  nationalities  that  live  in  Chicago  are.  Write 
a  story  about  the  women  of  each  nation.  Get  a  pic 
ture  to  go  with  the  story.  I  don't  want  catalogues 
of  their  virtues,  or  the  measurement  of  their  figures, 
as  a  tailor  would  give  them  to  you.  I  want  good, 
readable,  human  interest  stories  with  nice  pictures  for 
illustrations.  Drop  everything  else  and  go  on  this 
series  at  once.  I  want  the  first  of  these  stories  in 
three  days. 

"  You  can  go  right  on  getting  the  economic  stuff 
into  your  stories/'  Manning  added  after  some  reflec 
tion.  "  It  is  interesting.  But  make  your  economic 
stuff  less  conspicuous.  Got  plenty  of  feature  in  the 
foreground.  End  your  story  with  feature  and  sand 
wich  your  economics  in  between." 

Witte  told  Norton  the  substance  of  his  conversation 
with  the  Sunday  editor. 

"  I  guess  things  have  blown  over/'  Norton  said. 
"The  directors  may  kick,  but  they  have  a  great  deal 
of  respect  for  Manning.  He  is  fearless  and  he  has 
the  brains.  He  is  the  best  Sunday  editor  in  the  coun 
try,  and  they  know  it." 


162  WITTE  ARRIVES 

The  series  presented  even  better  opportunities  for 
interesting  writing  than  Witte  at  first  supposed. 
Every  person  has  a  story  to  tell  that  is  interesting  and 
often  absorbing.  The  life  of  the  immigrant,  and  es 
pecially  of  the  immigrant  woman,  of  the  girl,  can  be 
relied  upon  to  furnish  plenty  of  thrills  and  pathos  and 
romance. 

Thus  in  the  Lithuanian  colony,  on  Canalport  Ave 
nue,  Witte  found  two  sisters  who  were  working  in  a 
picture- frame  factory.  One  was  earning  five  dollars 
a  week,  the  other  four.  The  younger  one  spoke  fairly 
understandable  English.  Both  sisters  had  not  been 
over  three  years  in  the  United  States.  The  girls  were 
cultured  and  refined.  In  their  home  town  in  Lithuania 
they  were  considered  "  advanced."  They  read  and 
talked  about  women's  rights.  But  the  town  was  lone 
some.  There  was  no  outlet  for  their  energies.  They 
longed  for  work,  experience.  So  they  came  to  Amer 
ica,  to  Chicago.  They  hoped  to  find  every  woman  in 
Chicago  talking  of  women's  rights  and  advancement. 
The  picture-frame  factory  soon  disillusioned  them. 
The  Lithuanian  women  who  worked  in  the  stock 
yards,  pasting  labels,  or  doing  something  similar,  knew 
nothing  of  women's  emancipation.  They  were  too 
tired  to  think. 

And  not  only  was  this  the  case  with  the  Lithuanian 
women.  All  women  in  the  circles  in  which  these  two 


MARRIAGE  163 

sisters  moved  —  if  circles  they  can  be  called  —  were 
working  in  factories.  They  were  intensely  interested 
in  cheap  things,  in  common  things,  like  a  ribbon  for 
the  hair,  or  a  little  trinket  for  the  neck.  They  were  in 
dead  earnest  about  these  things  because  their  earnings 
were  small,  because  they  always  lacked  one  or  the 
other  of  these  trinkets.  And  the  lack  of  these  made 
such  a  difference.  One  had  to  sit  in  the  house  a  whole 
Sunday  sometimes  because  a  waist  gave  way  in  the 
washing  or  because  one's  stockings  tore  unexpectedly 
and  there  was  not  a  quarter  to  get  a  new  pair. 

"  And  if  you  marry  it  is  even  worse,"  one  of  the 
girls  told  Witte,  "  for  you  add  to  your  life  of  want 
and  privation  beatings  from  a  drunken  husband." 

"A  Girl's  Dream  of  Chicago,"  Witte  headed  the 
article. 

"  You  will  hear  from  it,"  said  Norton,  perusing  the 
story  in  proof. 

Witte  did  hear  from  the  story  —  from  an  unex 
pected  source.  He  had  had  the  pictures  of  ,the  girls 
taken  at  a  photographer's  in  the  neighborhood.  The 
day  after  the  story  appeared  he  went  in  to  see  the  pho 
tographer,  but  did  not  find  him  in.  He  started  to 
go,  when  the  latter's  assistant,  a  girl  whom  Witte  al 
ways  found  at  the  retouching  stand,  called  after  him. 
In  a  few  minutes  her  employer  would  be  in,  she  said. 

He  was  gazing  at  the  pictures  in  the  showcases  when 


164  WITTE  ARRIVES 

the  girl  walked  over  to  where  he  stood.     She  asked: 

"  Have  you  read  any  Russian  books  —  Russian  lit 
erature?" 

He  answered  in  the  affirmative,  mentioning  several 
Russian  authors  he  had  read. 

The  girl  nodded  as  if  in  answer  to  herself. 

"  But  why  do  you  ask?  " 

"  I  supposed  you  must  have  read,"  she  said,  "  or  you 
could  not  have  written  the  story^  about  the  Lithuanian 
girls  the  way  you  did." 

"  Did  you  like  my  story  ?  " 

The  girl  looked  up  at  him  and  Witte  was  astounded 
not  to  have  noticed  her  eyes  at  once.  They  were 
large  and  liquid.  A  world  of  sympathy  and  suffering 
lay  in  them. 

"  It  made  me  homesick,"  she  said.  . "  Especially 
that  part  of  the  story  where  you  describe  the  peasant 
girls  in  Lithuania  returning  home  from  the  fields  in 
the  evening,  singing  their  songs.  It  was  so  true  and 
lifelike.  Were  you  born  in  the  old  world?" 

"  I  was." 

"In  Russia?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  said  the  girl,  and  a  faint  flush  came 
into  her  face.  "  I  never  suspected  that  you,  too,  were 
an  immigrant." 

A  brief  silence  followed.  Witte  was  observing  his 
admiring  critic.  She  was  beautiful,  but  subdued.  Ap- 


MARRIAGE  165 

parently  there  was  no  one  to  notice  her,  to  fuss  over 
her. 

On  the  window  near  her  retouching  stand  lay  a 
book.  He  walked  over  and  opened  it.  It  was  Dau- 
det's  "  Letters  from  My  Mill." 

"  You  like  Daudet?  "  he  asked. 

"Very  much,"  she  said;  "his  stories  read  like 
poetry." 

"  And  you  like  poetry  ?' ' 

"Don't  you?"  she  smiled. 

Witte  now  visited  the  studio  frequently.  Two  or 
three  times  he  took  the  assistant  Miss  Helen  Brod 
k( shortened  from  the  Russian  Brodsky),  to  lunch. 
Once  they  went  to  an  amusement  park. 

One  rainy  afternoon  he  found  Miss  Brod  all  alone 
in  the  studio.  The  photographer,  Mr.  Altman,  had 
gone  downtown  for  supplies.  Miss  Brod  was  reclin 
ing  on  a  settee  in  the  waiting-room.  In  her  lap  lay 
a  letter.  The  envelope  was  foreign  looking.  Her 
lashes  showed  faint  traces  of  weeping. 

"  From  home  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  nodded. 

"Who  writes,  your  mother?" 

"Mother,  Father  —  both." 

Witte  sat  in  a  chair  at  one  side  of  the  settee. 

"  Have  you  any  brothers,  sisters  ?  " 

"Yes,  one  —  sister. 

"  And  does  she  write  to  you?  " 


166  WITTE  ARRIVES 

A  cloud  spread  over  the  girl's  face.  In  her  eyes 
a  mist  gathered  and  the  words  came  strained  and  sub 
dued: 

"  She  writes  —  rarely." 

Witte  was  not  certain  whether  the  girl  resented  his 
intrusion  into  her  private  affairs.  There  was  no  anger 
or  annoyance  in  her  voice,  only  a  quiet  pain. 

"  Why  doesn't  she  write  often  —  to  an  only  sister  ? 
I  should  think  she  would  write  often,"  he  pursued. 

Miss  Brod  took  a  deep  breath. 

"  You  see  —  she  cannot.     She  is  in  Siberia.  .  .  ." 

The  girl  was  going  to  break  out  in  tears,  but  she 
regained  her  composure.  Seeing  Witte  apparently 
waiting  for  the  rest  of  the  story  she  told  it  simply, 
briefly. 

In  her  parents'  absence  from  home  her  older  sister 
on  one  occasion  turned  over  the  house  to  the  revolu 
tionary  circle  to  which  she  belonged  for  a  meeting. 
The  police  trapped  them  and  arrested  every  one  in  the 
house,  including  herself,  who  was  then  only  fourteen. 
Her  sister,  as  the  hostess,  was  charged  with  being 
the  ringleader  of  the  group  and  was  exiled  to  Siberia 
for  an  indefinite  period.  The  others  were  given  sen 
tences  in  prison. 

Because  of  her  youth  she  was  released,  but  not  until 
her  father  had  stripped  himself  of  half  his  fortune 
to  bribe  officials.  And  after  her  release  she  was  kept 
under  police  surveillance  for  a  year.  At  the  end  of 


MARRIAGE  167 

that  time  her  father  decided  that  one  daughter  in 
Siberia  was  enough,  and  he  sent  her,  Helen,  to  Amer 
ica  to  stay  with  an  aunt.  For  the  past  seven  years, 
she  added,  her  father  had  been  trying  to  secure  the 
return  of  his  daughter  from  Siberia.  As  soon  as  her 
sister  was  released  —  if  she  ever  were  released  —  they 
would  all  join  her  in  America. 

Mr.  Altman  stayed  away  the  rest  of  the  afternoon. 
Witte  had  no  particular  reason  for  hurrying  to  the 
office,  so  he  and  Miss  Brod  exchanged  memories  of 
the  old  world.  His  memories  were  vague  and  child 
ish,  her's  sharp  and  tragic.  ...  He  told  her  of  his 
uncle,  Simeon  Witkowski,  and  described  the  latter's 
stay  in  Spring  Water. 

"  Witkowski,  Simeon  Witkowski,"  Miss  Brod  re 
peated,  trying  to  recollect  something.  She  ran  into 
the  next  room  and  returned  a  moment  later  with  a 
much  worn  revolutionary  pamphlet,  which  she  ap 
parently  had  read  a  great  many  times.  Witte  could 
not  make  out  the  title  or  the  name  of  the  author  —  it 
was  in  Russian.  But  the  little  brochure  was  prefaced 
with  a  picture  of  his  father's  brother,  of  the  dead 
Simeon. 

Twice  he  said  good-by  to  her,  but  did  not  leave. 
Altman  had  called  up  to  say  that  he  would  not  come 
back  to  the  studio  until  closing  time  —  eight  o'clock. 
Meantime  Miss  Brod  was  to  go  to  supper. 


168  WITTE  ARRIVES 

Emil  rose  for  the  third  time.  The  girl  followed 
him  to  the  door.  He  turned  the  knob,  swung  around 
and  extended  his  hand  to  her.  She  took  it. 

"  Good  night" 

"  Good  night,"  she  answered  softly. 

Her  voice  seemed  tinged  with  a  faint  regret.  It 
occurred  to  him  that  she  would  spend  a  lonely  even 
ing. 

He  was  still  holding  her  hand.  She  suddenly  be 
came  conscious  of  it  and  flushed.  He  felt  awkward. 
His  jaws  trembled  and  a  choking  feeling  rose  in  his 
throat.  .  .  .  He  released  her  hand.  In  the  next  in 
stant  he  had  his  arm  over  her  shoulder  and  was  press 
ing  her  close  to  his  breast.  His  face  was  buried  in 
her  hair.  .  .  . 

They  went  down  into  the  street  together.  A  block 
away  there  was  a  small  Bohemian  sort  of  restaurant 
Witte  patronized  when  in  the  neighborhood.  He  went 
in  there  with  Miss  Brod  and  sat  at  a  table.  The  proprie 
tor  of  the  place  came  up  and  ordered  from  the  head 
waiter  a  new  tablecloth.  He  brought  them  water  him 
self  in  sparkling  glasses.  He  kept  nodding  to  the  girl 
and  speaking  to  Witte  about  the  weather  in  a  manner 
indicating  that  he  penetrated  their  secret.  His  de 
meanor  seemed  to  say :  "  I  congratulate  you,  I  am 
very  glad  to  see  you  engaged.  You  are  a  splendid 
couple." 


MARRIAGE  169 

And  Witte  accepted  the  wordless  congratulation 
with  the  aggressive  air  of  a  man  who  has  just  carried 
off  a  great  prize  and  is  proud  of  his  achievement. 
Miss  Brod  hung  on  to  every  word  and  motion  of  her 
master  of  less  than  half  an  hour  with  touching  exalta 
tion  and  devotion  — 

.  .  .  The  question  of  his  earnings  which  had  so  un 
nerved  him  the  year  before  now  ceased  to  trouble 
him.  .Walking  one  evening  through  a  scented  ter 
race  in  Jackson  Park,  they  made  up  their  budget.  It 
coincided  exactly  with  his  salary.  The  following 
evening  they  looked  at  some  light  housekeeping  rooms 
advertised  in  the  papers.  They  found  two  rooms  that 
exactly  suited  their  needs.  Helen  was  fascinated  with 
them.  For  one  thing  both  rooms  looked  out  on  the 
street  and  had  sunshine  all  day  long.  There  was  a 
small  bedroom.  Of  the  large  room  a  part  was  screened 
off  for  a  kitchen.  The  rest  was  to  be  a  sitting-room 
by  day  and  Emil's  workroom  in  the  evening. 

Emil  emphasized  the  word  workroom.  For  he 
meant  to  settle  down  to  real  work.  He  would  either 
start  working  on  his  book  or  else  he  would  try  to  write 
articles  for  the  magazines. 

Helen  had  not  been  staying  with  her  aunt  for  the 
better  part  of  a  year.  Her  relatives  sought  to  impose 
upon  her  conventions  which  the  young  rebel  did  not 
approve.  The  setting  of  the  date  for  their  wedding 


170  WITTE  ARRIVES 

was  therefore  entirely  a  matter  for  her  and  Emil  to 
settle. 

"  Let  us  make  it  Friday,"  said  Witte.  "  Friday  is 
an  easy  day  at  the  office." 

Emil  and  Helen  had  agreed  to  keep  their  marriage 
from  the  office  as  much  as  possible.  He  was  not 
afraid,  or  anything  of  that  sort.  But  a  newspaper 
office,  he  felt,  was  a  place  which  concerned  itself  little 
with  the  family  side  of  the  men  or  women  employed. 
At  most  his  marriage  would  be  looked  upon  with  curi 
osity.  He  would,  therefore,  for  the  time  being  not 
tell  any  one  about  it.  He  would  not  even  ask  Man 
ning  for  a  day  off.  They  would  get  married  Friday. 
Saturday  was  a  half-holiday,  and  Sunday  they  would 
have  the  entire  day  to  themselves.  .  .  .  There  was  no 
use  dragging  the  happiest  moments  of  their  life  out 
into  the  cold,  unfeeling  atmosphere  of  a  newspaper 
office.  .  .  . 

They  were  together  every  evening  during  that  week, 
planning  their  future  or  drinking  each  other  in  mutely, 
passionately  — 

Friday  morning  Emil  came  to  Helen's  room.  She 
had  been  waiting  for  him,  attired  in  a  new  dress  she 
had  made  for  the  occasion.  Emil  explained  that  he 
was  late  because  he  had  had  an  expressman  take  his 
trunk  to  —  their  home.  The  expressman  would  be 
there  directly  to  take  her  trunk  too. 

When  Helen's  trunk  had  left  and  Emil,  through  the 


MARRIAGE  171 

window,  was  watching  the  expressman  load  it  on  his 
wagon,  the  girl  made  a  survey  of  her  little  room  which 
she  was  about  to  leave,  and  a  sigh  escaped  her.  She 
was  taking  farewell  of  her  girlhood.  She  was 
slightly  awed  before  her  future,  before  the  step  she 
was  taking.  If  her  parents  were  only  there  to  say 
an  approving  word,  to  give  her  a  consoling  look.  .  .  . 

Emil  kissed  her  out  of  her  reveries.  On  the  street 
car,  however,  they  came  back  to  her.  She  was  hum 
ming  something  to  herself,  and  a  mist  gathered  in  her 
eyes, 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  referring  to  the  song  she 
was  humming. 

"  An  old  Yiddish  song,"  she  answered.  "  I  heard 
it  on  the  ship  when  I  was  coming  to  America.  I  only 
remember  one  stanza  of  it." 

"  Hum  it,"  he  begged. 

She  half  sang,  half  recited  it,  in  a  whisper: 

"  In  a  strange  land, 
Among  strange  people, 
Who  will  bless  us 
On  our  wedding  day?" 

She  grew  silent.  Emil  thought  of  her  parents  in 
the  old  world  and  of  his  own  parents  in  Spring 
Water. 

"  It  is  kind  of  lonesome  to  get  married  all  by  your 
self,"  he  remarked  reflectively. 

As  if  these  words  had  snapped  the  last  cord  which 


172  WITTE  ARRIVES 

was  holding  her  overwrought  emotions  together, 
Helen  now  lost  all  control  of  herself.  The  tears  be 
gan  to  course  down  her  cheeks.  Several  people  in  the 
car  noticed  this,  and  were  looking  curiously  from 
Helen  to  Emil.  .  .  . 

He  helped  her  out  of  the  car.  They  were  down 
town.  The  bustle  and  noise  of  the  street,  the  matter- 
of-factness  of  the  day  in  the  life  of  the  city,  broke 
the  spell.  She  regained  her  composure.  They 
walked  a  half  dozen  blocks  to  the  City  Hall,  and  half 
an  hour  later  they  emerged  into  the  street,  husband 
and  wife. 

They  ate  their  lunch  at  a  near-by  restaurant,  and 
Emil  put  Helen  on  a  car.  He  was  to  come  as  soon 
as  he  could  get  away  from  the  office  to  their  rooms. 
She  was  to  wait  for  him  there  —  at  their  home  — 

On  his  desk  lay  a  clipping  from  Figaro.  It  was  an 
article  by  Marcel  Prevost  on  feminine  fashions. 

At  the  top  of  the  article,  scrawled  in  pencil,  was  a 
note  from  Manning  that  he  wanted  it  translated  at 
once.  Witte  opened  his  desk  and  went  to  work. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE   COVENANT 

THERE  came  a  series  of  delightful  weeks.  The 
bareness  of  existence  had  disappeared  and  life 
assumed  meaning.  When  he  closed  his  desk  after  a 
day's  work,  the  thought  that  he  was  going  home,  to 
his  wife,  thrilled  Witte.  To  hear  Helen  busying  her 
self  behind  the  screen  with  their  dinner  was  ecstasy. 
But  the  greatest  joy  of  all  was  the  evening. 

Emil  never  thought  life  had  the  capacity  for  so 
much  happiness  as  he  experienced.  For  hours  they 
would  sit  at  the  foot  of  Lake  Michigan,  leaning 
against  each  other,  the  warmth  of  their  bodies  in 
toxicating  them —  Wells  of  poetry  were  springing 
up  in  his  heart.  Ideas  were  twittering  through  his 
brain.  Thoughts  flowered  in  a  thousand  colors  — 

If  he  could  but  transfer  these  thoughts  and  feelings 
and  dreams  to  paper,  he  mused,  what  wonderful  writ 
ing  that  would  make.  By  the  time,  however,  they 
had  returned  to  their  rooms,  languor  invariably  got  the 
best  of  him  and  he  would  abandon  himself  to  the  en 
raptured  delights  of  the  senses  — 

The  letters  from  his  father  became  frequent.  His 

173 


174  WITTE  ARRIVES 

mother  —  Aaron  always  ascribed  all  tenderness  for 
Emil  to  his  wife  —  his  mother  was  pining  to  see  him 
—  and  their  daughter-in-law.  Could  they  not  come 
out  for  a  single  week? 

Emil  postponed  the  visit  to  his  home  in  every  letter. 
The  reason  for  the  postponement  was  the  one  thing 
that  was  beginning  to  cloud  his  happiness.  It  was  a 
question  of  money.  He  needed  at  least  forty  dollars 
to  make  the  trip.  The  most  he  could  get  together  was 
twenty.  He  had  hoped  to  save  the  other  fifteen  from 
their  expenses,  but  there  were  so  many  things  their 
young  household  needed  that  at  the  end  of  each  week 
he  would  find  just  enough  left  of  his  salary  to  last  him 
until  Monday,  which  was  pay  day  on  the  Star. 

His  parents,  however,  became  so  insistent  that  he 
could  not  postpone  the  visit  any  longer.  He  bor 
rowed  fifteen  dollars  from  Norton,  and  a  beautiful 
morning  in  September  found  him  and  his  young  wife 
on  the  train,  speeding  toward  Spring  Water. 

When  Helen  freed  herself  from  Mrs.  Witte's  em 
brace  she  felt  that  she  would  love  this  woman  as  her 
own  mother.  Her  vague  fear  of  her  mother-in-law, 
a  fear  which  she  did  not  quite  admit  to  herself,  let 
alone  to  Emil,  was  allayed.  Mrs.  Witte  had  but  love 
and  adoration  for  her  daughter-in-law  and  melted  at 
the  sight  of  her. 

It  was  a  happy  week  and,  as  is  characteristic  of 
happy  events,  it  passed  exceedingly  swiftly.  As  Emil 


THE  COVENANT  175 

and  his  wife  were  bidding  good-by  to  his  parents,  he 
noticed  that  every  leavetaking  from  his  family  was 
becoming  sadder,  more  difficult.  His  parents  were 
growing  not  only  older,  but  poorer.  His  father  could 
no  longer  work  as  he  used  to.  One  could  never  tell 
when  such  a  leavetaking  would  prove  final  for  one  of 
them  — 

He  mused  over  these  things  in  the  gathering  dusk 
while  the  train  was  tearing  its  way  toward  Chicago. 
Every  few  minutes  the  grayish  blackness  of  the  night 
was  pierced  by  a  light  from  a  farmhouse.  There  was 
a  serene  atmosphere  about  each  of  these  places.  Here 
and  there  a  farmer  was  seen  walking  toward  the  barn 
to  take  a  last  look  about  the  place  before  retiring  for 
the  night. 

They  passed  village  after  village  without  stopping. 

On  the  railway  platform  in  each  of  these  places 
there  invariably  stood  a  few  young  fellows,  looking 
curiously  at  the  speeding  train,  trying  to  get  a  glimpse 
of  the  people  in  the  coaches  —  people  who  were  hurry 
ing  at  mad  speed  to  Chicago  at  a  time  when  they,  the 
villagers,  were  preparing  to  yield  themselves  up  to  the 
silent  powers  of  sleep  — 

Helen  watched  Emil  with  growing  anxiety.  He 
had  not  spoken  the  greater  part  of  the  journey.  His 
face  was  grave  and  full  of  thought.  She  had  never 
seen  him  look  so  worried  before. 

Emil  did  not  notice  his  wife's  anxious  looks.     He 


176  WITTE  ARRIVES 

•was  still  meditating  over  the  fact  that  his  parents  were 
fast  sailing  into  the  twilight  of  life.  .  .  .  Mentally 
he  had  long  ago  constituted  himself  the  staff  and  sup 
port  of  his  parents  in  old  age.  Now  he  saw  old  age 
and  poverty  making  heavy  inroads  in  their  lives  — 
and  he  was  powerless  to  help  them.  .  .  .  Financially 
he  was  still  unsettled.  His  job  was  not  any  more  cer 
tain  now  than  it  was  before  he  was  married.  When 
he  got  back  to  the  office  in  the  morning  he  would  have 
to  face  Norton  from  whom  he  borrowed  the  fifteen 
dollars  for  the  journey. 

The  train  was  now  cutting  through  row  after  row 
of  tenement  houses.  They  were  in  Chicago  once 
more.  With  a  feeling  of  guilt  Witte  woke  out  of 
his  reveries  and  turned  his  thinned,  lengthened  face 
toward  his  wife  with  a  smile.  As  if  to  make  up  for 
his  neglect,  he  caressed  her  hand  until  the  train  pulled 
in  under  the  glass  roof  of  the  railway  station. 

When  the  fact  of  Emil's  marriage  became  known 
in  the  office  the  typewriters  ceased  to  click  for  fully 
fifteen  minutes  and  the  staff  discussed  its  youngest 
member. 

Some  considered  his  marriage  an  act  of  youthful 
inexperience  which  would  prove  costly.  Others,  es 
pecially  the  girls  in  the  office,  thought  it  was  a  show 
ing  of  character.  Apparently  Witte  had  confidence  in 
himself. 


THE  COVENANT  177 

One  day  Manning  called  him  into  his  private  office. 

"  I  hear  you  are  married,"  he  said. 

Witte  acknowledged  the  fact. 

The  Sunday  editor  fingered  a  newspaper  clipping 
for  some  moments. 

"  Fixed  up  a  flat?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Witte  dryly.  "  We  have  a  couple  of 
furnished  rooms." 

"  I  suppose  you  don't  want  to  tie  yourself  down  with 
a  flat." 

"  Partly  that,"  said  Witte,  blushing.  For  some 
time  past  he  had  been  thinking  of  asking  Manning  for 
a  raise.  He  now  wondered  whether  the  Sunday  edi 
tor  would  say  something  about  a  raise  himself.  Man 
ning  quickly  changed  his  tone  of  voice. 

"  Have  you  ever  tried  to  write  for  the  magazines?  " 
he  asked.  "  You  ought  to  be  getting  a  lot  of  good 
material  in  connection  with  your  work  here.  The 
magazines  ought  to  like  your  stuff.  .  .  ." 

With  considerable  satisfaction  Witte  that  same 
afternoon  told  Norton  that  the  Sunday  editor  had  en 
couraged  him  to  try  the  magazines.  The  latter 
laughed,  a  weary  sort  of  laugh. 

"  So  he  is  trying  the  same  trick  on  you  ?  " 

Witte  looked  puzzled. 

"  Well,  it  is  a  compliment,  anyway,"  Norton  con 
tinued.  "  It  shows  that  you  are  worth  a  lot  more 
money  than  you  are  getting,  and  Manning  is  beginning 


178  WITTE  ARRIVES 

to  be  afraid  you  might  strike  him  for  a  raise.  This 
talk  about  writing  for  magazines  is  an  old  gag  of  his. 
He  keeps  his  men  working  here  for  twenty  or  twenty- 
five  dollars  a  week.  When  you  come  to  him  for  a 
raise  he  makes  an  honest-to-God  face  and  tells  you  that 
he  positively  cannot  raise  you,  but  that  it  would  be 
foolish  for  you  to  quit,  because  the  Sunday  Star  gives 
you  such  splendid  opportunities  to  get  into  magazine 
work.  And  we  poor  fools  fall  for  the  flattery." 

Witte  stared  vacantly. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  with  the  Star?. "  Norton 
asked. 

"A  year." 

Norton  hesitated  for  some  moments  whether  to  say 
what  was  on  his  mind  or  not.  Finally  he  spoke. 

"  You  should  have  got  a  raise  by  this  time.  If 
you  were  single  to-day  and  came  and  asked  for  it  he 
would  give  it  to  you.  I  don't  think  he  will  now. 
You  are  married.  A  married  man  has  a  home  and 
loves  it.  He  won't  throw  up  his  job  so  quick.  The 
Star  knows  it,  and  takes  advantage  of  it." 

"  Is  it  that  bad?  "  Witte  asked.  "  I  thought  Man 
ning  was  a  man  of  fine  sensibilities." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Norton  made  a  wry  face.  "  He  has 
worlds  of  sympathy.  That  accounts  for  his  success 
as  an  editor.  But  his  sympathy  does  not  extend  to 
the  Star's  employees.  He  has  the  heart  of  a  saint  — 
in  the  paper.  But  it  is  as  hard  as  flint  when  it  comes 


THE  COVENANT  179 

to  meddling  with  the  Star's  payroll.  The  payroll,  my 
boy,  is  the  most  sacred  thing  on  the  Star.  Manning 
will  shed  tears  for  famine  sufferers  in  China.  He  will 
speak  in  ringing  tones  for  earthquake  sufferers  in  Italy. 
He  will  pour  into  the  Star  the  finest  sentiments  about 
the  persecuted  Jews  in  Russia.  Yes,  he  will  even  gush 
over  with  compassion  for  the  poor  tenement  children 
of  Chicago.  And  he  is  genuine  in  his  compassion. 
But  all  this  does  not  touch  the  Star's  payroll.  On 
the  contrary,  it  increases  circulation.  But  when  it 
comes  to  raising  a  reporter's  wages,  Manning  listens 
to  his  master's  voice,  to  the  counting-room.  The  only 
way  anyone  gets  a  raise  out  the  Star  is  by  the  use  of 
the  blackjack  —  figuratively,  of  course.  Take  the 
paper  by  the  throat  when  it  needs  you  most,  threaten 
to  quit  then,  and  you  will  get  a  raise,  not  other 
wise — 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  impute  that  Manning  is  a  hypo 
crite."  Norton  added  hastily.  "  That  he  is  not.  I 
have  known  him  to  write  a  check  for  a  hundred  dollars 
and  give  it  to  a  reporter  to  go  home  and  bury  his  dead 
mother.  But  business  is  another  thing.  One  of  the 
prime  requisites  of  an  editor  on  the  Star  is  that  he 
keep  the  payroll  down.  If  Manning  did  not  live  up  to 
this  rule  he  could  not  keep  his  job.  He  must  sweat  the 
employees  of  the  Starf  for  the  stockholders  of  the  Star 
need  the  money." 

Witte  had  no  appetite  at  dinner  and  sulked  the 


i8o  WITTE  ARRIVES 

greater  part  of  the  evening.  Helen's  perplexed  look 
and  mute  appeal  to  explain  his  sullenness  finally  wrung 
an  explanation  from  him.  He  told  her  the  substance 
of  his  conversation  with  Norton. 

She  paled  and  bit  her  lips.     After  a  while  she  said : 

"  I  have  known  such  things  to  happen  in  shops  — 
in  sweatshops.  Manufacturers  often  take  advantage 
of  a  man  who  is  married.  But  on  a  newspaper  • — :  do 
they  employ  the  same  methods  there  ?  " 

Emil  was  silent. 

Winter  was  coming  on.  Helen  needed  a  suit  and 
shoes.  He  needed  an  overcoat.  They  had  no  winter 
underclothes.  How  would  they  stretch  his  salary  of 
$22.50  to  meet  all  these  needs? 

Helen  was  about  to  suggest  that  she  might  supple 
ment  his  earnings  by  going  back  to  her  work,  but  re 
frained  from  doing  so  for  fear  of  offending  her  hus 
band.  Emil  had  definite  views  on  the  question  of 
women  working  after  marriage  which  he  elucidated 
to  her  once  in  the  course  of  a  conversation.  He  was 
not  averse  to  married  women  working.  In  fact  he 
approved  of  it  —  in  theory.  But,  he  had  said,  he 
could  not  escape  the  sentiment  that  he  would  feel 
humiliated  if  his  wife  went  to  work.  A  man,  he  felt, 
should  be  able  to  take  care  of  his  family.  Out  of 
regard  for  his  feelings  in  the  matter  Helen  avoided  the 
suggestion  of  seeking  employment. 

On  the  way  to  the  office  the  next  day  his  courage 


THE  COVENANT  181 

rose.     He  would  go  in  and  see  Manning  at  once  about 
a  raise. 

Manning  had  hardly  seated  himself  at  his  desk  when 
Witte  entered  and  laid  his  request  for  an  increase  in 
salary  before  him. 

"  Perhaps  at  a  later  time/'  said  Manning,  "  not 
now,  I  cannot  raise  salaries  now." 

Witte  reminded  him  that  he  had  worked  for  the 
Star  for  a  year,  that  he  had  never  missed  an  assign 
ment. 

Manning  was  unmoved. 

"  If  I  had  worked  in  a  grocery  store  that  long," 
Witte  said,  his  blood  mounting  to  his  face,  "  my  salary 
would  have  been  raised  after  that  length  of  satisfac 
tory  service." 

Manning  looked  up  at  him  and  even  more  emphati 
cally  than  before  repeated  that  he  would  not  raise  his 
salary. 

Witte  became  very  pale  and  walked  out.  He  did 
not  quit  — 

When  Helen  saw  her  husband's  face  she  became 
frightened.  He  told  her  of  his  unsuccessful  interview 
with  Manning,  adding  with  suppressed  fury: 

"  I  would  have  quit  —  if  we  were  not  married." 

He  was  sorry  he  had  said  these  words.  Only  after 
having  spoken  them  did  he  realize  their  significance. 
Helen  was  in  the  midst  of  serving  dinner.  As  he  said 
this  her  hands  fell  limply  to  her  sides  and  her  cheeks 


182  WITTE  ARRIVES 

became  very  pale.  She  went  behind  the  screen  noise 
lessly,  and  only  with  great  effort  did  she  manage  to  get 
everything  on  the  table  and  in  its  place. 

She  sat  nibbling  her  food  as  if  she  were  a  stranger 
in  the  house,  a  waif  picked  up  and  fed  by  a  kindly 
man.  She  did  not  look  at  Emil.  She  could  not  lift 
her  eyes  to  him. 

He  wanted  to  take  back  his  words,  but  did  not  know 
how.  He  was  nigh  unto  tears  at  the  sight  of  how 
deeply  he  had  hurt  her.  He  made  a  pretense  at  eating. 
Helen  waited  until  he  began  to  sip  his  coffee,  then  she 
slipped  away.  Emil  did  not  lift  up  his  eyes. 

She  did  not  return  to  the  table  and  he  could  not 
hear  her  behind  the  screen.  He  stepped  into  the  bed 
room.  She  was  lying  on  the  bed,  sobbing  as  if  her 
heart  would  break.  .  .  . 

He  gathered  her  quivering  form  in  his  arms  and 
covered  her  with  kisses.  Muttering  under  his  breath 
he  begged  her  forgiveness.  She  must  forgive  him, 
she  must  not  be  angry  with  him.  He  could  not  endure 
to  see  her  angry.  ...  He  had  not  meant  it.  Her  love 
was  worth  a  thousand  careers  to  him  ...  He  would 
get  out  of  the  business  entirely.  There  were  a 
thousand  things  a  man  could  do  besides  writing  for 
newspapers.  .  .  . 

Helen  finally  composed  herself  sufficiently  to  speak. 

She  was  not  angry  with  him  —  how  could  she  be  ? 
She  realized  even  better  than  he  how  he  had  felt  that 


THE  COVENANT  183 

evening.  And  what  he  said  about  being  married  was 
not  out  of  the  way.  It  was  true.  Married  men  were 
taken  advantage  of.  She  knew  that  long  ago.  She 
knew  it  even  more  now.  They  were  taken  advantage 
of  even  on  a  newspaper,  on  the  Star.  The  same  prin 
ciple  apparently  operated  there  as  in  the  sweatshops. 
Squeeze  all  you  can  out  of  a  man  for  as  little  as  you 
can.  That  was  the  hypocritical  attitude  of  present- 
day  society.  Encourage  marriage  on  paper,  in  editor 
ials,  in  the  pulpit,  and  discourage  it  in  the  pay  envelope. 
She  had  nothing  to  forgive.  On  the  contrary,  she 
sympathized  with  him  all  the  more.  She  realized  his 
difficulties,  his  predicaments.  .  .  . 

She  nestled  close  to  him  in  silence.  Then  she  sat 
upright  and  by  the  pale  stream  of  light  which  came 
from  the  next  room  she  looked  into  his  face.  That 
look  made  Emil  feel  strange,  almost  fearful. 

"Listen,  Emil,"  she  began.  "Life  would  not  be 
worth  two  cents  to  me  if  you  failed  in  your  ambition. 
But  you  cannot  fail.  Your  parents  have  always  had 
confidence  in  you.  I  have  more  confidence  in  you 
than  they.  And  I  tell  you,  you  shall  go  ahead,  you 
shall  reach  your  goal.  I  shan't  be  in  your  way  — " 

A  sickly  look  spread  over  his  face.  She  understood 
the  meaning  of  it.  Putting  her  hand  to  his  mouth,  to 
prevent  his  speaking,  she  went  on  feverishly: 

"  Listen,  I  shall  not  leave  you.  I  could  not  do  that. 
I  could  not  give  you  up.  But  I  am  not  going  to  hinder 


184  WITTE  ARRIVES 

you  in  your  work.  I  shall  not  be  a  drain  upon 
you  ...  I  can  earn  my  own  living  .  .  .  and  shall 
earn  it.  ...  There  is  no  reproach  in  that.  ...  Go 
right  ahead  with  your  plans.  .  .  .  Forget  that  you  are 
married  .  .  .  remember  only  that  you  are  loved.  .  .  . 

"  In  Russia,"  Helen  went  on  after  some  moments, 
"  lovers,  husbands  and  wives  are  clinched  in  a  deadly 
grip  with  autocracy  .  .  .  Now  and  then  the  autocracy 
gets  the  upper  hand,  and  the  husband  is  torn  from  his 
wife,  the  lover  from  his  sweetheart,  and  is  sent  to 
prison,  to  Siberia,  to  death.  ...  It  is  not  that  bad  in 
America.  We  don't  have  to  separate  for  long.  .  .  . 
But  don't  be  afraid  to  leave  me  when  duty  calls,  when 
your  ideal,  your  career  demands  it.  ...  Don't  be 
afraid  to  leave  me.  I  can  take  care  of  myself.  ..." 

Her  flood  of  words  was  halted  for  some  moments 
by  the  kisses  which  Emil  was  showering  on  her  face, 
lips  and  neck.  But  she  finally  tore  herself  away  from 
his  embrace  and  continued : 

"  I  want  you  to  treat  me  as  a  comrade  —  I  will  not 
be  a  millstone  about  your  neck.  If  you  had  a  man  as 
your  dearest  friend,  that  friendship  would  not  prevent 
you  from  going  on  with  your  work.  Love  for  your 
parents  does  not  prevent  you  from  leaving  them  when 
your  career  calls.  Treat  me  as  you  treat  your  parents. 
I  demand  it  of  you.  It  is  a  covenant  I  am  making 
with  you.  I  shall  not  be  a  burden  upon  you.  I  shall 
not  be  in  your  way.  .  .  ." 


THE  COVENANT  185 

Emil  was  half  listening  to  her  words.  ...  He  was 
just  discovering  in  Helen's  face  a  depth  of  character 
and  idealism  that  went  beyond  even  his  most  extrava 
gant  dreams  and  expectations. 

"  It  is  a  covenant  I  am  making  with  you,"  she  kept 
murmuring. 

"  A  covenant,  a  covenant." 

He  tried  to  still  her  lips  with  kisses  — 


CHAPTER  XIV 

WAR   ON   THE   UNBORN 

THE  next  day  Emil  took  stock.  If  he  were  to 
leave  the  Star  he  could  probably  get  a  job  with 
another  paper  in  Chicago.  But  there  was  little  to  be 
gained.  It  might  perhaps  raise  his  wages  to  twenty- 
five  dollars  a  week.  But  he  would  lose  a  good  deal 
of  freedom.  He  would  have  less  time  to  himself. 
The  wiser  and  better  policy  was  to  stay  on  the  Star 
until  he  produced  something.  He  would  lie  low  until 
his  wings  became  stronger. 

He  began  to  live  by  the  clock.  He  systematized  his 
time  and  plunged  into  work.  When  he  came  home  in 
the  evening  dinner  was  on  the  table.  Half  an  hour 
was  devoted  to  the  meal.  An  hour  was  then  spent  in  a 
chat  with  his  wife  and  in  glancing  through  the  evening 
papers.  Eight  o'clock  found  him  at  a  little  improvised 
desk,  straining  the  keys  of  a  much  worn  typewriter. 

He  worked  until  eleven  o'clock  night  after  night. 
While  he  was  writing  Helen  would  sit  in  the  bedroom 
and  read.  She  noticed  on  the  first  evening  of  this  new 
arrangement  that  her  presence  in  the  workroom  was 
embarrassing  to  Emil  and  she  stayed  away  thereafter. 

Through  the  half-open  door,  however,  she  would 

186 


WAR  ON  THE  UNBORN  187 

often  watch  him  bent  over  the  machine,  absorbed  ap 
parently  in  the  search  of  an  idea,  a  word  or  a  phrase. 
There  were  times  when  exhaustion  was  written  in  all 
his  motions.  He  was  tired.  At  such  times  Helen 
felt  like  slipping  up  to  him,  twining  her  arms  about  his 
neck  and  putting  an  end  to  his  labors.  But  she  re 
frained  from  doing  so.  Emil,  on  the  other  hand, 
stuck  to  his  work  as  a  matter  of  principle.  Even  poor 
work,  he  would  often  say,  is  better  than  no  work,  and 
that  it  was  more  practical  to  rewrite  a  thing  than  to 
sit  and  wait  for  an  inspiration  to  come. 

At  the  end  of  two  months  he  had  a  story  finished. 
The  fact  of  having  accomplished  something,  of  having 
written  something  besides  his  routine  work,  cheered 
him  and  urged  him  on  to  further  endeavor.  He 
mailed  the  story  to  a  magazine  and  at  once  proceeded 
to  work  on  an  article. 

The  material  for  the  article  proved  more  unyielding. 
He  had  to  take  off  a  number  of  evenings  to  verify  cer 
tain  facts.  On  other  evenings  he  went  to  the  library 
to  read  up  on  the  subject.  In  the  midst  of  these  labors 
his  first  story  was  returned  from  New  York  with  a 
printed  rejection  slip  from  the  editors  of  the  magazine. 
,Witte  promptly  rewrote  the  first  page,  which  had  been 
slightly  soiled  in  handling,  and  sent  the  story  on  to 
another  magazine.  He  would  not  be  daunted  by  a 
refusal.  He  knew  that  there  was  no  royal  road  to 
literary  success.  .  .  . 


.188  WITTE  ARRIVES 

His  work  on  the  paper  was  now  getting  more 
troublesome.  Manning  was  exercising  a  sort  of  un 
official  censorship  over  his  stories.  He  objected 
frequently  to  certain  ideas  proposed  by  Witte.  Nor 
ton  was  telling  him  that  the  Sunday  editor  was  in  dis 
favor  with  some  of  the  stockholders  of  the  paper. 
There  was  even  a  rumor  that  he  might  be  forced 
out.  Certain  "  tory "  directors  insisted  on  his  dis 
missal. 

Engrossed  in  his  work  and  preoccupied  with  these 
stories,  Witte  had  for  some  days  paid  scant  attention 
to  Helen.  As  he  returned  home  one  evening  he  found 
her  sitting  in  a  chair,  crouched  together  as  if  in  pain. 
Her  face  was  thin  and  white. 

"  You  are  ill,"  he  said,  alarmed. 

She  made  evasive  answers. 

He  suggested  that  they  go  to  a  doctor  at  once.  But 
she  refused,  insisting  that  she  would  wait.  A  day 
passed  and  then  another.  Helen  was  ill  and  haggard, 
but  still  stubbornly  refused  to  see  a  physician.  Witte 
determined  that  he  would  call  a  physician  the  next 
morning  whether  she  agreed  to  it  or  not. 

Late  that  night  he  was  awakened  by  a  peculiar 
trembling  which  seemed  to  fill  the  room.  ...  He 
reached  out  his  hand.  Helen  was  not  there.  She 
lay  at  the  other  end  of  the  bed,  sobbing.  He  raised 
the  shade  and  a  flood  of  moonlight  fell  upon  her  pros 
trate  form.  He  took  her  in  his  arms. 


WAR  ON  THE  UNBORN  189 

He  questioned  her  with  all  the  tenderness  he  could 
command.  What  was  ailing  her?  Her  half -spoken 
answers  were  vague  and  evasive.  Her  sobbing  soon 
ceased,  but  he  could  not  go  to  sleep.  His  mind  was 
wide  awake  and  working.  Suddenly  things  became 
clear  to  him  —  He  grasped  her  hand  and  in  the  dark 
he  sought  her  face,  her  eyes.  She,  too,  was  awake. 

"Are  you — "  The  words  stuck  in  his  throat. 
His  dry  lips  seemed  immovable.  He  made  an  effort 
and  gained  control  over  his  throat  muscles.  Rising 
on  one  elbow  he  stared  in  the  direction  of  her  face. 

"  You  are  going  —  to  be  a  mother  — "  He  tried 
to  speak  these  words  calmly,  even  tenderly,  but  failed. 
There  was  alarm  in  his  voice,  as  if  a  great  catastrophe 
had  overtaken  them.  Helen  broke  out  in  violent  weep 
ing  once  more,  and  twining  her  arms  about  his  neck, 
she  clung  to  him  helplessly.  .  .  . 

After  a  while  she  regained  her  composure.  She 
tried  to  set  him  at  ease.  It  was  nothing.  She  was 
troubled,  of  course  —  but  that  was  not  saying  that 
she  was  going  to  be  a  mother.  That  could  not  be 
definitely  known  for  some  time — :  It  might  prove 
merely  a  scare  — 

Several  weeks  passed.  Helen  had  grown  much 
thinner.  Emil  was  trying  to  console  her.  There  was 
nothing  to  worry  about,  he  told  her.  But  he  himself 
was  worried  and  nervous.  Work  on  his  article  now 
lagged  behind.  His  office  trials  weighed  heavier  on 


190  WITTE  ARRIVES 

him.  Manning  was  head  over  heels  in  trouble,  and 
the  entire  staff  felt  an  impending  change. 

One  afternoon  when  there  were  few  people  in  the 
office,  Manning  walked  over  to  Witte's  desk. 

"  Have  you  done  anything  for  the  magazines  yet?  " 
he  asked.  Witte  told  him  of  his  unsuccessful  efforts. 

Manning  looked  absent.  It  was  a  troubled  look, 
and  Witte  saw  it.  It  dawned  upon  him  how  close 
he  and  the  Sunday  editor  were  —  they  were  both  hired 
men.  They  were  both  responsible  to  some  one, 
dependent  upon  the  whim  of  some  one,  required  to 
please  some  one. 

"  Better  hang  on  to  the  magazines,"  Manning  fired 
as  a  parting  shot.  And  the  meaning  of  it  was  clear 
to  Witte :  "  You  ought  to  try  and  get  out  of  here," 
Manning  had  meant.  "  So  long  as  I  am  here,  I  am 
protecting  you  because  I  have  taken  you  on.  When  I 
am  gone  there  will  be  no  one  to  protect  you.  You 
will  not  be  needed  here.  Go  before  you  are  dis 
charged." 

The  soreness  which  Witte  had  nursed  in  his  heart 
against  the  Sunday  editor  for  refusing  to  raise  his 
wages  was  gone  now.  Apparently  Manning  had  his 
troubles. 

He  walked  home  from  the  office  ruminating.  He 
found  Helen  lying  on  the  bed.  She  had  not  been  feel 
ing  well  that  afternoon.  Emil  fixed  up  a  meal  for 
them.  But  she  did  not  eat.  At  his  suggestion  that 


WAR  ON  THE  UNBORN  191 

perhaps  he  had  better  call  a  doctor  after  all  she  smiled 
weakly. 

She  was  "  better  "  in  the  morning.  Again,  how 
ever,  she  did  not  eat.  Emil  went  to  the  office,  saying 
that  he  would  run  in  home  at  noon. 

He  could  not  get  away  until  nearly  two  o'clock. 
When  he  entered  their  rooms  he  found  Helen  in  bed. 
The  landlady  was  sitting  beside  her,  holding  her  hands. 
Helen's  face  was  chalk-white  and  her  lips  blue.  She 
glanced  at  Emil  weakly  and  was  about  to  say  some 
thing.  But  the  landlady  warned  her :  "  Hold  your 
breath." 

A  carriage  stopped  in  front  of  the  house.  It  was 
the  doctor  for  whom  the  landlady  had  telephoned  at 
the  request  of  Helen. 

The  physician  ordered  Helen's  street  clothes.  She 
was  dressed  in  a  few  moments.  They  helped  her 
downstairs  and  into  his  carriage.  The  doctor  gave 
Emil  the  address  of  a  private  hospital. 

"What  has  happened?"  Emil,  left  standing  there 
bewildered,  asked. 

"  As  though  you  don't  know ! "  The  landlady 
snapped  her  jaws  and  walked  out  of  the  room. 

At  the  hospital  Witte  had  to  wait  for  an  hour. 
Finally  the  doctor  emerged.  He  was  accompanied  by 
another  physician.  They  talked  briskly  and  seemed 
well  pleased.  The  doctor  informed  him  that  the 
operation  was  "very  successful,"  that  his  wife  was 


192  WITTE  ARRIVES 

safe  and  would  be  home   in  a   week  or  ten   days. 

"  But,  doctor,  what  happened,  what  did  you  do  to 
her?"  Witte  stammered. 

The  physician's  face  flushed  with  anger. 

"If  you  want  to  ask  me  questions/'  he  said,  "  come 
to  my  home.  You  will  find  the  office  hours  on  this 
card." 

When  Witte  entered  his  office  an  hour  later,  the 
physician  looked  him  over  curiously. 

"  Have  you  come  to  cross-question  me?  "  the  doctor 
snapped.  "  Do  you  know  that  your  wife  has  only  paid 
me  half  of  the  miserable  sum  of  twenty-five  dollars 
which  I  charged  her  for  this  operation?  She  did  not 
have  the  other  twelve  and  a  half  dollars.  But  it  did 
not  matter.  I  yielded  to  her  pleas  for  this  operation 
because  she  threatened  to  commit  suicide.  And  she 
would  have  committed  it.  I  am  a  pretty  good  judge 
of  human  nature.  I  know  the  sort  of  people  who  only 
threaten  and  those  who  do. 

"  In  this  chair  where  you  are  sitting,"  the  physician 
continued,  "  she  sat  and  wept  and  told  me  how  a  child 
would  be  her  ruin.  She  told  me  all  about  yourself, 
your  job,  your  employers.  She  told  me  how  she 
meant  to  help  you  gain  your  goal.  She  sobbed  until 
it  seemed  that  her  heart  would  break.  She  would  not 
leave  this  room  until  I  promised  to  save  her  —  or  read 
a  death  sentence  to  her.  .  .  ." 

The  physician  was  silent,  apparently  waiting   for 


WAR  ON  THE  UNBORN  193 

Emil  Witte  to  speak.  But  Emil  could  not  utter  a 
word. 

"  Young  man,"  the  doctor  resumed,  and  his  voice 
was  softer  now.  "  You  are  working  on  a  newspaper, 
you  are  a  writer  and  are  supposed  to  know  life.  But 
let  me  tell  you  something : 

"  War  on  the  unborn  is  not  made  by  physicians.  It 
is  made  by  society.  The  newspapers,  and  your 
Chicago  Star  in  particular,  are  worried  in  their  edi 
torial  columns  over  the  growth  of  race  suicide.  But 
do  they  mean  it  ?  Do  they  pay  their  employees  enough 
to  raise  families?  Do  they  pay  them  enough  to 
marry  ?  Does  not  society,  do  not  your  publishers,  the 
molders  of  society,  of  public  opinion,  look  upon  the 
boy  of  twenty-five,  who  marries  as  a  fool  who  will  soon 
sober  up  and  realize  the  great  mistake  he  has  made? 
It  is  not  the  doctor  who  is  responsible  for  the  race 
suicide,  but  society.  It  is  the  curse  of  our  civilization 
that  it  is  taking  the  joy  and  pride  out  of  parenthood 
by  the  ghost  of  unemployment  and  the  terror  of 
poverty.  .  .  . 

"  Many  self-respecting  physicians,  like  myself,  per 
form  such  operations  not  because  we  relish  war  on 
the  unborn,  but  in  order  to  save  those  already  living. 
Go  home,  young  man,  and  be  thankful  that  your  wife 
is  now  on  the  road  to  mental  and  physical  recovery  in 
a  hospital  instead  of  lying  a  suicide,  as  she  would  have 
been,  had  not  I  yielded  to  her  plea. 


194  WITTE  ARRIVES 

"  Go  home,  and  when  you  have  thought  it  over,  and 
find  that  I  have  earned  the  twenty-five  dollars  which 
your  wife  was  supposed  to  pay  me,  you  can  send  me 
a  check  for  the  other  twelve  and  a  half  dollars.  But 
there  is  no  hurry  about  it.  Pay  it  when  you  can." 

Emil  walked  through  the  streets  of  the  city  until 
late  that  night.  He  passed  in  front  of  the  hospital 
several  times.  The  last  time  he  passed  it  was  mid 
night.  He  did  not  know  what  room  she  was  in. 
But  everything  about  the  building  was  quiet.  Evi 
dently  everything  was  well. 

When  he  entered  his  room  he  found  a  small  hand 
kerchief  on  the  floor.  It  was  Helen's.  She  had 
dropped  it  as  she  was  leaving  for  the  hospital.  .  .  . 
He  put  the  handkerchief  to  his  lips.  A  stream  of 
tears  broke  from  his  eyes.  They  were  tears  of  sorrow 
and  of  longing  for  the  girl,  for  his  wife,  to  whom 
he  felt  he  would  always  remain  a  debtor  for  her  great 
love  and  sacrifice  for  him. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE   NEW    KING 

4<TT  THAT  does  Manning  mean  when  he  says  he 
W  is  a  'static'?"  Witte  had  asked  Norton 
shortly  after  he  came  to  work  for  the  Star. 

Norton  smiled. 

"  By  being  a  '  static '  Manning  means  that  he  stands 
aside  and  watches  the  passing  show  with  a  grin.  He 
means  that  after  one  is  in  the  newspaper  business  a 
long  time,  one  loses  the  power  to  enthuse  over  ideas, 
to  fight  for  a  principle.  One  becomes  accustomed  to 
the  world's  follies  and  does  not  try  to  reform  it.  One 
becomes  indifferent." 

Manning's  description  of  himself  as  a  "  static  "  was 
not  entirely  true.  He  had  not  lost  the  power  of 
enthusiasm  altogether.  He  was  not  indifferent  to 
everything.  While  it  amused  him  to  see  people  take 
up  a  so-called  "  cause  "  and  fight  for  it,  while  he  dis 
missed  such  people  as  "  cranks,"  he  was  himself  a 
"crank"  in  certain  matters.  One  of  these  was  the 
editing  of  a  Sunday  paper. 

It  was  common  talk  in  newspaper  circles  that 
Manning  had  made  the  Sunday  Star.  He  had  poured 
his  life  into  his  work.  It  was  his  pride  that  the 

195 


196  WITTE  ARRIVES 

Sunday  Star  always  led,  that  his  ideas  were  invariably 
followed,  copied.  On  the  question  of  editing  a  Sun 
day  paper,  Manning  was  not  a  "  static."  He  was  not 
indifferent.  He  was  positive.  He  knew  what  he 
wanted  and  insisted  on  having  his  own  way. 

Accordingly  when  the  expected  happened  and  he  was 
called  on  the  carpet  before  the  directors  at  a  very 
private  conference,  Manning  entered  the  office  with 
his  mind  fully  made  up.  The  directors  wanted  him 
to  drop  the  "  pessimistic  "  stories,  as  they  called  them 
politely.  (They  had  other  less  polite  names  for  these 
stories  which  they  refrained  from  mentioning  in  the 
editor's  presence.)  They  were  unwholesome.  The 
Star  could  not  be  confounded  with  those  who  try  to 
muckrake.  Let  him  fill  the  Sunday  paper  with 
pleasant  reading  matter.  Why  dig  up  the  gloomy,  un 
pleasant  side  of  the  city?  Those  things  had  better  be 
left  alone.  It  does  no  good  to  stir  up  discontent. 

The  spokesman  of  the  directors,  Mr.  Andrew  G. 
McNaughton,  was  a  gentleman  who  headed  a  large 
manufacturing  plant  in  Chicago.  The  editors  of  the 
Star  spoke  of  him  as  "  the  good  old  Tory."  He  was 
accustomed  to  command.  He  talked  to  many  of  his 
lawyers  much  the  same  as  he  did  to  his  clerks  and 
office  boys.  To  him  an  "  employee  "  was  an  "  em 
ployee,"  no  matter  what  work  he  was  doing. 

Manning  listened  to  a  long  tirade  by  McNaughton 
in  silence.  The  silence  of  the  editor,  the  steady  gaze 


THE  NEW  KING  197 

of  his  gray  eyes  irritated  the  manufacturer.  As  the 
chairman  of  the  Board  of  Directors,  McNaughton 
could  dictate  the  policy  of  the  paper.  Manning  knew 
that;  he  acceded  to  it.  McNaughton  could  order 
things  with  regard  to  the  management  of  the  Star  as 
he  could  with  regard  to  the  management  of  his  factor 
ies.  There  was  nothing  for  Manning  to  do  when 
McNaughton  was  exercising  his  rights  as  chief  stock 
holder.  It  was  his  property  and  he  had  a  right  to 
order  what  should  and  what  should  not  go  into  the 
paper. 

The  continued  silence  of  the  Sunday  editor  finally 
brought  McNaughton  out  of  all  patience.  He  began 
to  cast  aspersions  upon  Manning,  upon  his  ability  as 
an  editor.  In  a  fit  of  suppressed  rage  he  suggested 
caustically  that  perhaps  Manning  was  combing  the 
slums  and  digging  up  "  these  sewer  stories "  (he 
pointed  to  a  number  of  clippings  which  lay  on  the 
table  in  front  of  himj  because  of  a  famine  of  ideas. 

The  chief  of  the  stockholders  had  ventured  beyond 
his  boundaries.  He  could  dictate  to  the  Sunday 
editor,  but  he  could  not  assail  his  professional  pride. 

At  these  words  of  McNaughton,  Manning  became 
very  pale.  A  smile  played  about  his  lips  and  his 
drooping,  sarcastic  chin,  a  smile  of  boundless,  crushing 
contempt.  He  straightened  up  in  his  chair  and  with 
a  slightly  exaggerated  politeness  replied  to  the  chief 
stockholder.  He  had  great  respect  for  Mr.  Me- 


198  WITTE  ARRIVES 

Naughton's  ability  as  a  business  man,  Manning  said 
speaking  slowly  and  still  smiling,  but  he  considered  the 
latter's  opinions  about  editing  a  newspaper  entirely 
worthless. 

It  was  McNaughton's  turn  to  grow  pale.  He  was 
beaten.  Manning  came  from  a  New  England  family 
whose  traditions  went  back  to  pre-Revolutionary  days. 
Several  well-known  writers  had  come  from  that 
family.  Manning's  father  had  been  a  famous  editor 
in  his  day.  Manning's  sneer  at  McNaughton's  at 
tempt  to  judge  him,  to  condemn  him  as  an  editor, 
struck  a  vulnerable  spot.  McNaughton  personally 
was  not  cultured.  As  for  his  family  —  he  side 
tracked  all  reference  to  it  by  stressing  the  fact  that  he 
was  a  self-made  man. 

Manning  dropped  his  smile.  He  spoke  in  dead 
earnest  now. 

'  You  object  to  my  printing  stories  which  deal  with 
vital  facts,"  he  said,  "  facts  that  are  of  great  concern 
to  the  community,  to  the  nation.  '  Sewer  stories/  you 
call  them.  You  speak  of  them  with  contempt.  The 
German  government,  the  statesmen  of  Germany,  do 
not  sneer  at  these  facts.  Belgium  does  not  sneer  at 
them.  They  know  better  over  there.  They  are  in 
terested  in  these  problems  and  try  to  remedy  such 
conditions. 

"  A  paper  like  the  Star  should  be  alive  to  all  the 
issues  and  problems  and  wants  of  the  people.  It 


THE  NEW  KING  199 

should  know  the  city,  yes,  even  to  the  ratholes  and 
sewers,  where  the  masses  live  and  breed  anger  and  dis 
content.  .  .  . 

"  Let  me  predict,"  Manning  continued,  lowering  his 
voice,  but  lending  a  prophetic  emphasis  to  it,  "  let  me 
predict  that  in  five  years  from  now  the  same  issues 
which  I  am  now  taking  up  in  the  Sunday  pages,  buried 
between  columns  of  advertising,  will  command  a  re 
spectful  hearing  on  the  editorial  page  of  the  Star." 

The  directors  shifted  uneasily  in  their  seats.  Mc- 
Naughton  quickly  asserted  himself.  Assuming  a  lofty 
look  of  unconcern,  as  if  to  signify  that  he  was  accus 
tomed  to  meet  all  sorts  of  people  and  to  listen  to  all 
sorts  of  twaddle  by  flighty  or  ill-balanced  persons,  he 
announced  that  he  knew  what  he  wanted  in  the  Sunday 
Star  and  proposed  to  stand  by  his  policy. 

"  Then  you'd  better  get  another  man  to  carry  out 
your  policy,"  Manning  said,  rising  from  his  chair, 
and  he  walked  out  of  the  directors'  room. 

Several  directors  exchanged  uneasy  glances.  One 
of  them  said  something  about  Manning's  years  of  ser 
vice  to  the  paper.  He  had  built  up  the  circulation  of 
the  Star.  He  had  given  it  prestige.  The  Sunday 
editor  was  too  good  a  man  to  lose. 

But  McNaughton  was  obdurate.     He  was  furious. 

"  No  man  is  too  good  to  lose,"  he  shouted.  "  The 
day  when  a  man  was  indispensable  is  over.  Manning 
goes  and  his  place  shall  be  filled  at  once." 


200  WITTE  ARRIVES 

The  next  morning  there  appeared  on  the  bulletin 
board  a  notice,  signed  by  the  publisher,  announcing 
that  "  Mr.  Manning  having  resigned,  Mr.  Bradford  is 
now  Sunday  editor,  and  the  staff  is  expected  to  regard 
him  accordingly." 

Bradford  was  one  of  the  Star's  privileged  reporters. 
He  was  what  was  known  as  a  "  policy  man."  He  was 
an  expert  when  it  came  to  writing  a  cynical  or  sneer 
ing  story.  And  on  the  Star  sneering  stories  took  first 
rank. 

For  the  Star  had  close  affiliations  with  certain  cor 
porations.  When  a  special  privilege  was  wanted  from 
the  city  council  by  one  of  these  corporations  and  ob 
jection  arose  from  one  source  or  another,  the  paper 
immediately  launched  out  upon  a  campaign  of  sneers 
and  ridicule  against  the  men  who  objected  to  the  steal. 
Invariably  such  campaigns  of  ridicule  resulted  in  vic 
tory  for  the  corporation  because  they  diverted  the  pub 
lic  mind  from  issues  to  cheap  personal  sneers  and  libels 
against  certain  men. 

So  Bradford,  having  for  years  served  in  the  position 
of  "policy  reporter"  and  having  helped  put  over 
"  jokers "  on  the  people,  was  placed  in  Manning's 
position.  There  was  a  double  object  in  it.  Not  only 
was  it  to  reward  Bradford.  His  viewpoint,  his  atti 
tude  toward  social  questions,  or  rather  lack  of  attitude, 
were  considered  essential  now  to  undo  the  work  of 
Manning.  He  could  be  relied  upon  to  have  no  eye  for 


THE  NEW  KING  201 

slums  and  problems.  There  would  be  no  more  "  un 
comfortable  "  stories  in  the  Sunday  paper. 

Bradford  began  his  duties  as  Sunday  editor  with 
a  general  overhauling  of  the  staff.  He  called  the 
writers  into  his  office  one  by  one.  Some  of  them  came 
out  smiling.  Others  had  a  furtive  look  in  their  eyes. 

He  called  Witte  last. 

"  There  are  some  stories  I  want  you  to  take/'  Brad 
ford  said.  The  acquaintance  between  Witte  and  him 
self  had  been  very  casual.  The  Sunday  editor  now 
looked  him  over  carefully,  searchingly.  Bradford's 
spoken  instructions  were  to  sidetrack  Witte  from  his 
accustomed  work  and  put  him  on  general  assignments. 
The  unspoken  instructions  were  to  get  rid  of  him. 

It  was  policy  with  the  Star  not  to  "  fire  "  reporters 
but  to  "  let  them  out."  There  were  various  ways  of 
letting  a  reporter  see  that  his  usefulness  to  the  paper 
had  waned  and  that  his  removing  himself  would  be 
welcomed.  This  policy  of  not  discharging  employees 
was  fostered  by  McNaughton,  who  cherished  the  idea 
of  being  a  "  benevolent  "  employer. 

"We  have  had  altogether  too  many  distressing 
stories  in  the  paper  of  late,"  Bradford  continued. 
"  There  were  some  protests  —  from  readers,  I  believe. 
Anyway  from  now  on  we  want  bright  and  snappy 
things  in  the  Sunday  paper.  Suppose  you  try  to  get 
some  humorous  stories.  Find,  for  instance,  the  largest 
family  in  Chicago  —  a  man  having  thirty  or  forty 


202  WITTE  ARRIVES 

children.  That  would  make  a  corking  page.  Another 
story  you  might  get  is  about  the  girl  that  has  had  the 
most  proposals  of  marriage.  Get  me  also  a  story 
about  the  shop  girl  who  has  the  prettiest  feet  in 
Chicago.  .  .  ." 

There  was  very  little  work  done  in  the  office  that 
afternoon.  The  men  sought  out  the  nearest  barroom 
and  there  discussed  the  "  new  king." 

Witte  took  little  interest  in  the  discussions  now. 
Since  the  days  he  had  spent  in  the  hospital  with  his 
wife  and  watched  her  go  through  the  ordeal,  her 
struggle  against  death,  his  job  and  office  politics  ap 
peared  small  indeed.  He  felt  guilty  toward  his  wife. 
It  was  his  fear,  his  helplessness  in  the  arena  of  life, 
he  said  to  himself,  that  had  urged  Helen  on  to  take 
chances  with  death. 

In  the  office  meantime  the  work  of  disintegrating  the 
staff  was  begun.  Two  new  men  were  brought  in  by 
Bradford.  One  of  them  was  to  be  his  assistant,  the 
other  a  rewrite  man.  An  uneasy  expression  appeared 
on  the  faces  of  several  members  of  the  staff.  Some 
body  would  have  to  leave  — 

At  the  end  of  the  week  the  Sunday  editor  called  in 
a  Mr.  Lane,  a  member  of  the  Star's  staff  for  several 
years,  and  informed  him  that  henceforth  he  would  be 
put  on  space.  He  would  be  paid  for  as  many  stones 
as  the  paper  would  use.  Lane  resigned. 

"  I  guess  it  is  my  turn  next,"  Witte  thought  and 


THE  NEW  KING  203 

was  vaguely  planning  what  he  would  do.  Bradford 
had  already  dropped  several  remarks  about  not  caring 
for  stories  about  the  "  foreign  scum  "  and  the  "  tene 
ment  trash." 

"  There  is  a  letter  for  you  in  the  mailbox,"  Norton 
woke  him  out  of  his  reflections.  The  letter  was  from 
a  Mr.  Brinton,  the  editor  of  a  new  magazine  started 
in  Chicago.  Would  Witte  kindly  come  and  see  him 
at  once? 

Witte  went.  Brinton  needed  an  article  on  a  civic 
subject  for  the  next  issue.  That  would  be  a  week 
hence.  Could  Witte  have  such  an  article  in  a  week? 

The  article  was  finished  four  days  later.  The  same 
afternoon  Brinton  called  up  to  notify  Witte  that  the 
article  suited. 

"It  is  just  the  thing,"  said  the  editor;  "come  and 
see  me  in  the  morning." 

Brinton  ordered  two  more  articles  from  Witte  "  on 
social  lines."  They  were  ready  in  less  than  ten  days. 
Witte  was  now  waiting  for  a  letter  from  Brinton. 
There  might  be  some  changes  to  make.  They  might 
even  have  to  be  rewritten.  He  was  ready  for  it. 
After  ten  days  the  letter  came.  The  editor  was 
pleased  with  the  articles.  He  might  want  to  change 
here  and  there  a  phrase  later  on,  but  there  would  be 
no  material  changes.  He  inclosed  a  check  for  one 
hundred  and  five  dollars  for  the  three. 

As    Emil   held   the    check   between   his   trembling 


204  WITTE  ARRIVES 

fingers,  his  eyes  filled  with  a  haze.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
just  received  a  commutation  of  a  long  prison  sentence. 
For  though  he  had  for  some  weeks  given  every 
moment  he  could  spare  to  the  articles  for  Mr.  Brinton, 
the  changes  that  were  being  made  or  were  pending  in 
the  office,  had  not  escaped  his  attention.  Several 
stories  he  had  written  were  cut  down  by  Bradford  to 
one-third  of  their  original  length.  Several  other 
stories  of  his  were  killed  in  proof.  Clearly  he  wrould 
have  to  be  going  soon.  The  check  was  his  passport 
into  the  world  — 

It  was  the  last  day  of  March,  but  the  breeze  that 
evening  was  as  mild  as  that  of  a  May  day.  Witte 
not  only  walked  home,  but  he  took  his  coat  off,  and 
enjoyed  every  step  he  was  taking  —  and  planned  his 
future.  .  .  . 

Without  a  word,  with  an  air  of  reverence,  Witte 
handed  the  check  to  Helen. 

She  gazed  at  the  green  slip  of  paper  before  her  and 
then  fixed  her  eyes  upon  her  husband.  There  was  a 
solemn  look  in  Emil's  face. 

"  What  will  it  be  next?  "  she  asked. 

"  New  York,"  he  answered. 

Quietly  Witte  opened  the  door  into  the  Sunday 
editor's  room.  Bradford  turned  in  his  swivel  chair, 
and  perceiving  the  reporter,  grinned  icily.  Witte,  with- 


THE  NEW  KING  205 

out  knowing  why,  thought  of  a  fox  as  he  gazed  at 
Bradford's  smooth-shaven,  slick  face. 

"  I  came  to  pronounce  my  valedictory,"  he  smiled  in 
turn.  "  I  want  to  give  you  two  weeks'  notice.  I  shall 
leave  at  the  end  of  that  time." 

The  icy  grin  disappeared  from  Bradford's  lips. 
Witte  had  stolen  a  march  on  him.  He  had  resigned 
and  deprived  him,  Bradford,  of  the  pleasure  of  freez 
ing  him  out.  .  .  . 

"  Got  a  job,  I  presume,"  Bradford  said  bluntly. 

"  No,"  Witte  replied.  "  I  have  not  tried  to  get  a 
job  here.  I  am  going  to  New  York." 

The  Sunday  editor  started  slightly.  In  his  heart  of 
hearts  he  had  faith  in  Manning's  judgment  and  re 
spected  Manning's  choice  of  men.  And  Manning  not 
only  had  chosen,  but  so  consistently  stood  by  Witte  — 
Bradford  knew  that  far  better  than  Witte. 

"I  am  sorry  you  are  going,"  Bradford  ended  a 
silence  that  was  becoming  awkward.  "  I  am  sure  you 
will  make  good  there.  Anything  I  can  do  for  you  — 
don't  hesitate  to  ask  me." 

The  announcement  that  Witte  was  going  to  New 
York  created  a  respectful  atmosphere  in  the  office 
toward  him.  One  older  member  of  the  staff  spoke  re 
gretfully  of  his  own  lost  opportunities.  He,  too, 
should  have  gone  to  New  York  at  a  certain  point  in 
his  career.  Several  of  the  younger  writers  talked 


206  WITTE  ARRIVES 

wistfully  of  the  day  when  they,  too,  would  leave  for 
the  metropolis.  .  .  .  Witte  was  much  in  demand  now. 
Everybody  was  glad  to  split  a  bottle  of  beer  with  him 
and  to  express  confidence  in  his  ability  to  make  good 
in  New  York.  .  .  . 

He  wrote  a  letter  full  of  tenderness  to  his  parents. 
His  finances  did  not  permit  his  coming  home  to  say 
good-by  to  them.  But  he  hoped  to  spend  his  vacation 
with  them  in  the  near  future  —  perhaps  in  a  year.  He 
would  come  to  see  them  at  the  first  opportunity.  His 
going  away  to  New  York,  he  feared,  would  be  a  blow 
to  them.  They  would  find  it  hard  to  reconcile  them 
selves  to  it. 

To  his  surprise  the  attitude  of  his  parents  was  the 
very  opposite.  They  were  glad  he  was  going  to  New 
York.  They  had  confidence  in  his  ability  to  make 
good  there,  boundless  confidence.  And  when  he  made 
good  —  who  could  tell  but  what  they  might  join  him 
in  the  great  metropolis.  .  .  . 

Here  his  father's  letter  grew  intimate  and  subdued. 
Not  only  his  mother,  Masha,  but  he,  Aaron,  too,  would 
like  to  leave  Spring  Water.  .  .  .  They  would  like  to 
join  Emil  in  New  York.  .  .  .  They  were  getting  old. 
He,  Aaron,  was  not  as  strong  as  formerly.  .  .  .  The 
life  of  a  pedler  was  becoming  too  hard  for  him.  In  a 
city  he  might  find  some  lighter  work.  And  he  would 
be  among  his  people  —  among  Jews  —  They  longed 


THE  NEW  KING  207 

to  be  among  Jews  again.     It  was  hard  to  spend  one's 
declining  years  among  "  goyim  "  (Gentiles). 

Parental  blessing  and  repeated  confidence  in  him 
closed  the  missive  which  acted  as  a  depressant  on  Witte 
the  rest  of  the  day  and  evening. 

They  ate  their  last  supper  in  silence.  .  .  .  Helen 
quickly  disposed  of  the  dishes.  She  put  them  away 
in  the  improvised  little  closet  in  their  screened  kitchen, 
ready  for  use  by  the  next  couple  that  should  move 
into  "  their "  rooms.  .  .  .  The  trunks  had  already 
been  packed  —  the  landlady  notified.  In  the  morning 
Helen  would  move  into  another  room.  She  had 
already  got  back  her  job  with  Mr.  Altman  and  would 
go  to  work  as  soon  as  Emil  left  — 

It  was  still  light,  and  they  sat  by  the  window  looking 
out  upon  the  street  which  with  the  breath  of  spring 
was  assuming  new  life.  Their  shoulders  touched,  but 
they  avoided  looking  at  each  other,  for  each  sensed  the 
tears  in  the  other's  eyes.  .  .  . 

They  could  repress  themselves  no  longer.  .  .  .  The 
tears  came  with  a  rush.  .  .  .  As  if  seeking  protection 
against  the  overpowering  emotions,  they  held  each 
other  in  passionate  embrace  and  wept  on  each  other's 
shoulders. 


It  was  past  midnight  when  sleep  finally  relaxed  their 
tense  nerves  and  made  an  end  of  their  whispered  con- 


208  WITTE  ARRIVES 

fidences.  At  the  break  of  day,  however,  Emil  was 
awake.  He  raised  the  shade  slightly  and  in  the  pale 
morning  light  he  watched  Helen's  even  breathing. 
There  was  a  faint  flush  in  her  cheek.  She  looked 
almost  like  a  child  to  him  —  and  she  was  so  patheti 
cally  lonely.  A  great  sorrow  seized  him.  He  was 
leaving  her  alone  without  money,  without  friends, 
without  a  protector.  ...  It  was  cruel,  cruel  of  him  to 
leave  her,  cruel  of  the  world  to  separate  husband  and 
wife  for  the  sake  of  bread.  .  .  . 

He  took  her  soft  hands  in  his  and  covered  them 
with  kisses.  .  .  .  She  opened  her  eyes.  There  was 
a  blurred  smile  in  them.  She  had  been  awakened  in 
the  midst  of  a  pleasant  dream.  She  nestled  up  close 
to  him,  twined  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  was  asleep 
again  in  an  instant.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XVI 

LETTERS AND    MORE   LETTERS 

WITTE  had  fortified  himself  with  letters  to  New 
York  editors  before  leaving  Chicago.  One 
of  these  was  to  the  editor  of  the  Advance,  Mr.  Howard 
Charles  Thornton.  It  was  written  by  an  old  chum 
of  Thornton's,  a  copy  reader  on  the  Chicago  Star. 

"  So,  you  know  Priestley,"  the  editor  eyed  Witte 
sympathetically.  Thornton  was  fond  of  the  old  copy 
reader  in  Chicago.  The  two  had  worked  side  by  side 
for  many  years.  Priestley  was  considered  by  far  the 
brighter  man.  It  was  Thornton's  fortune,  however, 
to  be  pushed  upward  wherever  he  worked.  Priestley 
stood  in  one  place. 

They  talked  about  Chicago.  Thornton  recalled  his 
own  days  in  the  newspaper  field  with  a  feeling  not 
unlike  that  with  which  men  speak  of  their  boyhood 
days.  He  was  a  man  past  forty-five  and  had  been  out 
of  newspaper  work  for  twelve  years.  He  mentioned 
several  editors,  but  Witte  did  not  know  them.  A  new 
generation  had  come  and  gone  since  Thornton  left. 

"  Priestley,"  the  editor  said,  assuming  a  business 
tone,  "tells  me  that  you  come  here  to  do  magazine 

209 


210  WITTE  ARRIVES 

work.  What  do  you  intend  to  confine  yourself  to  — 
fiction  or  articles  ?  " 

"Articles,  fiction  —  both/ '  said  Witte.  "I'll  try 
my  hand  at  every  thing. " 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  best  way/'  Thornton  nodded. 

After  a  pause  he  asked  bluntly: 

"  How  are  you  fixed  financially?  " 

Witte  told  him  he  had  thirty-five  dollars  in  his 
pocket. 

The  editor  winced  at  the  young  man's  inexperience. 

"  I  would  suggest,"  he  said,  "  that  you  try  to  con 
nect  up  with  some  newspaper  here.  You  don't  want, 
of  course,  to  take  a  regular  job,  if  you  aim  to  do  maga 
zine  work,  but  you  ought  to  get  some  special  work  to 
do.  Magazine  writing  is  a  precarious  business  in  the 
beginning.  You  ought  to  try  and  make  your  living 
through  the  newspapers,  as  a  free  lance.  You  ought 
to  have  no  trouble  selling  stuff  to  the  Sunday  papers." 

With  this  Mr.  Thornton  dismissed  Witte,  after 
urging  him  to  submit  his  stories  or  articles  to  him  as 
soon  as  they  were  written. 

"Do  you  know  Mr.  Merrick  of  the  Universe?" 
Thornton  asked  as  Witte  was  about  to  leave.  "  Mer 
rick  is  a  Chicago  man.  Better  go  up  and  see  him. 
Tell  him  I  sent  you  to  him.  He  is  a  good  man  to 
know." 

At  the  end  of  two  days  Witte  had  rounded  up  the 
half  dozen  editors  to  whom  he  had  introductions. 


LETTERS— AND  MORE  LETTERS     211 

The  third  day  was  Saturday.  He  "  pitched  his  tent," 
as  he  wrote  Helen,  in  a  room  on  East  Fifteenth  Street, 
and  put  in  the  same  evening  in  writing  a  feature  which 
he  had  observed  during  the  day.  A  Sunday  paper,  he 
thought,  would  take  it.  He  worked  on  it  all  Sunday 
morning.  In  the  afternoon  he  wrote  to  Helen. 

".  .  .  It  is  three  o'clock,"  he  wrote  in  part.  "  The 
street  is  teeming  with  people  dressed  in  their  best. 
Even  in  the  ghetto,  a  part  of  which  I  can  see  by  looking 
out  of  my  window,  every  one  seems  to  be  observing 
Sunday.  There  is  a  whole  afternoon  and  evening 
ahead  of  me.  It  is  the  first  Sunday  afternoon  and 
evening  without  you.  I  don't  count  all  the  Sundays 
I  spent  before  I  knew  you.  They  have  been  obliter 
ated  by  your  presence.  All  I  remember  is  the  joyful 
Sundays  we  spent  together  —  When  I  think  of  hav 
ing  to  spend  the  next  twenty  or  twenty-five  weeks 
without  you- — as  things  are  shaping  themselves  now 
I  cannot  expect  to  have  you  here  much  sooner  —  when 
I  think  of  being  away  from  you  all  that  time,  I  feel 
all  energy  escape  me.  Yet  this  must  not  be.  I  must 
have  my  energies  keyed  to  the  highest,  as  this,  and 
this  alone,  can  bring  nearer  the  day  of  your  coming  to 
me.  .  .  ." 

".  .  .  My  impressions  of  New  York,"  he  wrote  in 
another  letter,  "  are  mixed.  It  holds  me  spell-bound 
at  times,  and  then  again  it  horrifies  me.  Was  it  Heine 
who  said  *  I  am  a  tragedy,  I  am  a  comedy '  ?  New 


212  WITTE  ARRIVES 

York  might  appropriately  take  this  for  its  motto, 
emblazon  it  over  its  skyscrapers.  It  is  everything  in 
one.  It  is  a  beast,  it  is  a  God.  It  is  in  one  breath 
the  most  American  city  in  the  United  States,  and  yet 
the  most  foreign  city  in  America.  The  squalor  of 
the  old  world  and  the  genius  of  the  new  are  often 
housed  within  a  block  of  each  other.  The  flower  of 
the  nation's  intellect  and  the  ebb  of  humanity  pass  each 
other  on  the  street,  rub  shoulders  with  one  another 
in  street  cars.  .  .  ." 

"  Unsettled  as  I  am,"  he  wrote  on  another  occasion, 
"  I  am  still  settled  in  a  rut.  My  free  lance  newspaper 
articles  give  me  a  living,  and  no  more,  and  the  maga 
zine  articles  keep  coming  back,  with  polite  regrets  from 
editors.  Three  months  have  passed  and  still  I  have 
not  landed;  still  your  coming  is  as  far  off  as  on  the 
first  day  I  came  here.  ...  It  is  becoming  intolerable 
: —  I  suffocate  for  want  of  you  — " 

His  next  letter  was  a  paean  of  triumph.  A  story  of 
his  had  been  accepted  by  the  Universe.  The  clouds 
were  clearing,  and  the  sun  was  breaking.  It  was  the 
beginning  of  further  successes.  He  had  three  more 
stories  traveling  among  magazines.  Soon  he  would 
be  in  a  position  to  send  for  her.  .  .  . 

Within  the  next  two  weeks,  however,  every  one  of 
the  stories  came  back  with  a  personal  note  of  regret 
from  the  editor  or  a  reader  of  the  magazine.  ...  It 


LETTERS— AND  MORE  LETTERS     213 

was  not  a  bad  story,  but  —  in  every  case  there  was  the 
same  "  but "  —  the  story  did  not  suit  the  needs  of  the 
magazine. 

He  had  become  friendly  with  the  assistant  editor  of 
one  of  the  magazines,  a  young  man  recently  out  of 
Harvard.  The  latter  explained  to  him  why  his  stories, 
though  the  editors  honestly  thought  them  good,  were 
not  accepted. 

"  You  no  doubt  remember  the  role  of  the  Fates  in 
Greek  mythology,"  the  assistant  editor,  Jennings,  said 
to  him.  "  What  the  Fates  had  spun,  even  the  Gods 
could  not  unravel.  Before  the  Fates  Olympus  itself 
was  helpless. 

"  The  editors  are  in  much  the  same  position.  Each 
magazine  has  set  up  a  certain  standard.  It  has  made 
up  its  mind  to  appeal  to  a  certain  class  of  the  public. 
It  has  therefore  decided  upon  a  certain  kind  of  story 
that  it  wants.  Your  stories  are  good,  but  they  do  not 
happen  to  fit  the  needs  of  the  magazine  as  we  see  them, 
or  think  them.  In  this  case  the  editor  is  helpless. 
What  he  likes  to  read  personally  is  not  always  the 
stuff  he  dares  give  to  his  readers  — " 

Several  weeks  later  the  check  for  his  first  story 
came  from  the  Universe.  It  was  a  check  for  sixty- 
five  dollars.  Witte  looked  at  it  long  and  mournfully. 
There  were  stories  current  not  only  among  the  public, 
but  among  newspaper  men  as  well,  that  short  stories 


214  WITTE  ARRIVES 

were  prize  articles.  Fabulous  sums  were  being  paid 
to  short  story  writers.  O.  Henry  was  getting  a 
thousand  dollars  for  two  or  three  pages.  .  .  . 

His  own  thirty-five  dollars  with  which  he  had  come 
to  New  York,  had  been  reduced  to  only  twenty,  in 
spite  of  the  jealous  guard  he  kept  over  it.  Working 
on  his  stories,  he  often  neglected  his  bread  and  butter 
stuff  for  the  newspapers  and  had  to  draw  an  occasional 
dollar  from  the  bank.  Eighty-five  dollars,  then,  was 
what  he  had  at  the  end  of  five  months  in  New  York 
upon  which  to  attempt  to  build  a  nest  in  the  metropolis 
for  Helen.  But  before  the  nest  could  be  feathered 
even  on  the  installment  plan,  Helen's  fare  to  New 
York  had  to  be  paid.  .  .  .  She  might  even  have  to 
have  a  suit.  .  .  .  She  never  said  anything  in  her  letters 
about  clothes,  but  he  knew  how  much  she  was  earn 
ing.  .  .  . 

He  sat  for  a  long  time,  held  fast  in  his  chair  by  a 
sick,  dizzy  feeling.  .  .  .  Twilight  had  come  and  gone 
and  now  night  was  spreading  her  black,  heavy  wings 
over  the  city.  .  .  . 

He  went  down  into  the  street  and  lingered  long  at 
the  table  in  the  restaurant,  paying  no  heed  to  the 
annoyed  look  on  the  head  waiter's  face,  which  seemed 
to  say :  "  Why  don't  you  pay  your  bill  and  go?  " 

At  last  he  went  out  into  the  street  again. 

The  sky,  which  had  been  bright  and  starry  when 
Witte  entered  the  restaurant,  was  now  leaden.  A 


LETTERS— AND  MORE  LETTERS     215 

wind  was  raising  the  dust  from  the  street  and  sending 
it  up  in  clouds.  He  strolled  aimlessly. 

A  fine  rain  began  to  sprinkle.  Unconsciously  he 
welcomed  it.  He  increased  his  pace.  The  more  the 
rain  penetrated  his  clothes,  the  further  it  seemed  to 
remove  him  from  the  tormenting  thoughts  which  had 
held  him  fast  that  afternoon  and  the  early  part  of  the 
evening,  since  he  had  received  the  check.  His 
troubles  now  seemed  remote,  as  if  they  concerned  some 
one  else,  not  him.  He  forgot  the  petty  worries  of  the 
day  and  feasted  his  eyes  on  the  scenes  in  the 
streets.  .  .  The  city  was  teeming  with  stories.  .  .  . 
Some  day  when  he  had  made  his  name  he  would  force 
the  editors  to  accept  the  stories  he  was  now  seeing  — 
not  make  him  look  for  stories  that  they  want.  .  .  . 
Some  day,  some  day  —  All  his  life  he  had  been  living 
with  that  "  some  day  "  in  view,  and  still  the  words 
seemed  as  full  of  freshness  and  hope  to  him  as 
ever.  .  .  . 

At  Broadway  and  Forty-second  he  was  caught  in  a 
whirl  of  humanity,  which,  in  spite  of  the  rain,  had  no 
thought  of  cutting  its  pleasure  short.  He  walked 
briskly  and  presently  found  himself  near  Columbus 
Circle.  He  turned  back. 

He  stopped  in  front  of  the  Times  Building  and 
looked  up  at  the  seventeenth  floor.  He  knew  that 
floor.  He  had  been  up  there  a  number  of  times.  It 
was  alive  with  activity  now.  It  was  twelve  o'clock. 


216  WITTE  ARRIVES 

The  first  edition  of  the  paper  had  already  gone  to 
press.  It  seemed  to  him  he  could  smell  lead  —  the 
odor  of  the  composing  room.  The  tips  of  his  fingers 
felt  as  if  they  had  just  come  in  touch  with  a  wet 
proof  —  drops  of  rain  had  trickled  down  on  them 
from  his  coat.  It  reminded  him  that  he  was  getting 
wet. 

He  strolled  down  Seventh  Avenue.  The  rain  was 
gaining  strength.  Here  and  there  in  the  streets  pools 
were  forming.  He  increased  his  pace.  At  Thirty- 
Fourth  Street  he  would  strike  a  car. 

A  dark  form,  a  woman,  suddenly  slipped  out  from  a 
hallway. 

"  Lonesome,  Buddy?"  And  the  dark  form  fell  in 
line  with  Witte.  She  turned  a  smiling  face  on  him. 
She  was  young,  very  young.  Through  the  paint  on 
her  cheeks  and  penciled  eyebrows  innocence  was  fight 
ing  hard  to  come  to  the  surface. 

"  It  is  so  wet  and  I  am  so  uncomfortable,"  she 
lisped.  She  adjusted  her  umbrella  to  make  room 
under  it  for  Witte.  "  My  shoes  are  soaked  through 
and  my  feet  are  wet." 

It  seemed  as  if  she  were  confiding  her  troubles  to  a 
brother. 

"  Gee,"  she  continued,"  I  am  so  hungry,  I  could  eat 
a  steak  as  big  as  my  head."  She  tried  to  gain  Witte's 
eye.  "  Won't  you  come  and  buy  me  a  steak  ?  I  know 
a  nice  restaurant  around  the  corner." 


LETTERS— AND  MORE  LETTERS     217 

Witte  stopped  abruptly,  and  looking  her  squarely  in 
the  face,  said : 

"  How  long  is  it  since  you  saw  your  mother,  girlie  ?  " 

The  girl  moved  away  a  few  steps,  as  if  stung. 

"You  think  you're  funny,  don't  you?"  she  said, 
still  moving  backward.  There  was  a  gleam  of  resent 
ment  in  her  painted  features.  Her  anger  made  her 
appear  more  natural.  It  heightened  the  look  of  inno 
cence  about  her.  It  seemed  unbelievable  that  she  was 
one  of  the  "  women  "  the  world  never  mentioned  with 
out  scorn.  The  "  slush,  slush "  of  her  torn  shoes 
reached  Witte's  ears. 

"Wait,"  he  called  back.  He  fished  out  a  dollar 
from  his  pocket.  "  Here,  buy  yourself  a  steak." 

The  girl  took  the  dollar  and  looked  at  it  to  make 
sure  that  it  was  real  money. 

11  We  can  both  eat  on  that,"  she  said,  her  voice  sof 
tening.  "  Come  along,  why  don't  you  ?  " 

Were  it  not  for  her  painted  cheeks  and  eyebrows, 
the  hour  of  the  night,  or  rather  morning,  and  the  cer 
tainty  of  the  girl's  "  profession,"  she  might  have  been 
taken  for  a  high  school  girl,  who  was  coaxing  a  boy 
classmate  to  taste  of  the  candy  she  had  herself  made 
and  threatening  to  be  insulted  if  he  refused. 

Witte  had  started  off.  When  he  reached  his  room 
he  opened  the  window  wide  and  lighted  the  gas.  Ex 
cept  for  the  light  in  a  restaurant  a  block  away  the 
street  was  deserted.  The  sky  was  clearing  up.  The 


218  WITTE  ARRIVES 

stars  came  out  and  a  breeze,  cooled  and  refreshed  by 
the  rain,  swept  up  from  the  East  River  and  zigzagged 
its  way  through  the  tenements.  The  weariness,  which 
had  befallen  him  in  the  car,  had  disappeared  with  the 
removal  of  his  wet  clothes.  He  sat  down  at  the  table 
and  wrote  Helen  a  long  letter,  informing  her  of  the 
decision  that  was  born  within  him  that  evening. 

The  next  three  days  he  haunted  the  newspaper  of 
fices  in  search  of  a  job.  The  search  of  work,  how 
ever,  netted  him  nothing. 

"  It  is  a  tough  game  getting  a  job  in  this  town,"  a 
reporter  he  knew  warned  him.  "  They  \vill  take  a 
story  if  you  have  one,  but  if  you  wrant  a  job  on  the 
staff  you  have  to  force  them  to  give  it  to  you.  If  you 
have  letters,  they  at  least  give  you  a  personal  hearing. 
That  is  worth  something." 

The  next  morning  Witte  went  to  see  the  editor  of 
the  Advance.  Mr.  Thornton  was  out  of  town,  but  his 
secretary,  Miss  Graves,  to  whom  Witte  had  talked  on 
several  occasions,  came  out. 

He  told  her  in  a  few  words  of  his  decision  to  go 
back  to  newspaper  work  and  to  wait  for  a  more  au 
spicious  opportunity  in  the  magazine  field. 

"  I  wanted  to  ask  Mr.  Thornton  if  he  could  not  give 
me  letters  to  some  of  the  editors  in  town.  It  is  hard 
to  get  to  them  otherwise,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  the  girl  agreed,  "  and  Mr.  Thorn- 


LETTERS— AND  MORE  LETTERS     219 

ton  would  be  very  glad  to  introduce  you  to  some  of 
the  editors,  I'm  sure.  Suppose  you  wait  until  next 
Monday,  He  will  surely  be  back  then.  Can  you  wait 
that  long?" 

Witte  smiled.  Of  course  he  would  wait.  Miss 
Graves  lingered  for  a  moment,  and  Witte  sensed  that 
the  young  woman  wanted  to  say  something  else,  but 
held  back.  They  said  "  Good  day  "  to  each  other,  and 
he  walked  out. 

Thornton  was  busy  Monday.  He  told  Witte,  how 
ever,  that  he  would  write  the  letters  of  introduction 
for  him  at  the  first  opportunity  and  that  Miss  Graves 
would  mail  them  to  him. 

Two  days  later  he  received  a  packet  containing  half 
a  dozen  letters  to  as  many  editors  of  different  papers 
written  by  Mr.  Thornton.  Inclosed  was  a  note  from 
Miss  Graves  transmitting  these  letters  and  expressing 
the  hope  that  they  would  be  of  value  to  him. 

She  added  casually : 

"If  these  letters  fail  to  anchor  anything  im 
mediately,  you  might  call  on  my  brother,  George 
Graves,  on  the  Evening  Bulletin.  He  is  telegraph 
editor  there.  I  have  already  talked  to  him  about  you." 

Thornton's  letters  to  the  editors  brought  in  every 
case  a  handshake  and  a  few  moments'  conversation. 
But  there  were  no  jobs  open  then.  Witte  was  told  to 
call  around  again.  Perhaps  something  would  turn  up. 

He  went  to  see  Mfss  Graves'  brother  on  the  Bulletin 


220  WITTE  ARRIVES 

as  a  last  resort.  The  telegraph  editor  sent  word  down 
for  Witte  to  wait  half  an  hour,  until  he  got  through 
working.  Witte's  heart  leaped  up  for  joy  at  this  in 
formal  and  brisk  answer.  There  was  no  chilling 
politeness  here.  It  was  like  a  soldier  talking  to  a 
brother  soldier. 

"  Whew,"  said  Graves,  shaking  hands  with  Witte, 
"this  telegraph  room  is  an  inferno.  They  keep  us 
cooped  up  in  it  like  hens.  Let's  go  out  and  get  a  breath 
of  air." 

What  had  impressed  Witte  most  about  Miss  Graves 
on  his  various  visits  to  Thornton's  office  was  her  evi 
dent  high  breeding.  In  her  manner  she  was  simple 
and  democratic,  yet  she  walked  like  a  queen.  Her 
features  were  delicate  and  yet  there  was  a  deliberate- 
ness  in  them.  Her  bearing,  the  way  she  bowed  or 
smiled,  bespoke  great  culture  and  refinement.  The 
same  air  of  refinement  characterized  her  brother, 
George  Graves. 

"  Let's  go  out  to  the  water  front,"  the  latter  said. 
"  One  feels  so  much  freer  by  the  water.  No  wonder 
stories  about  the  sea  never  lose  their  interest! " 

The  two,  walking  side  by  side,  presented  a  strange 
contrast.  Graves  with  his  cane  and  dark-rimmed 
glasses  looked  every  inch  the  New  England  Yankee 
that  he  was.  Witte  looked  decidedly  plebeian  in  his 
baggy  clothes. 

"  My  sister  told  me  about  the  fight  you  have  been 


LETTERS— AND  MORE  LETTERS     221 

making  to  get  into  the  magazines,'*  Graves  said,  "and 
that  you  want  to  get  back  to  newspaper  work  for  a 
while;'1 

Witte  told  him  of  his  experience  with  editors  while 
job  hunting. 

"  Yes,"  said  Graves,  "  I  suppose  it  is  hard  for  the 
outsider.  I  myself  have  never  been  away  from  New 
York  and  have  never  thought  much  how  difficult  it  is 
for  an  outsider  to  get  in  here." 

"  I  shall  talk  to  Mr.  Milne  within  the  next  two  or 
three  days,"  he  added.  "  Mr.  Milne  is  the  managing 
editor.  I  think  he  will  make  room  for  you." 

Two  days  later  Witte  received  a  telegram  from 
Graves  to  call  on  him  that  same  afternoon  at  two 
o'clock.  He  introduced  him  to  Milne,  but  the  manag 
ing  editor  talked  to  him  only  a  moment  and  turned  him 
over  to  the  city  editor,  Mr.  Bogart.  The  latter  asked 
Witte  a  few  perfunctory  questions  and  told  him  to 
come  to  work  the  next  morning. 

He  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Helen  full  of  cheer  and 
hope  and  expectancy.  They  would  be  reunited  in  a 
month. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   END   OF   A   DREAM 

WINTER  had  come  and  gone.  One  by  one  the 
tenement  houses  were  yielding  themselves  up 
to  spring.  At  first  the  older  children  were  allowed  to 
play  marbles  in  the  streets.  Then  even  babies  were 
permitted  to  taste  the  balmy  air  of  the  last  days  of 
March.  Windows,  which  had  been  shut  tightly  all 
winter  long,  were  now  raised. 

Helen  sat  by  the  open  window  of  their  flat  in  a 
"  model "  tenement  building  and  looked  out  upon  the 
street.  It  was  Sunday  morning.  Breakfast  was  done, 
and  it  was  still  too  early  to  worry  about  dinner.  The 
book  she  had  meant  to  read  lay  beside  her,  half  opened. 
She  was  not  reading.  Emil  was  glancing  through  the 
Sunday  papers,  jabbing  his  pencil  here  and  there  at  a 
story  which  interested  him,  and  which  he  meant  to  read 
later. 

Helen  sighed. 

'  You  look  worried,"  Emil  said,  observing  his  wife's 
face. 

"  Just  spring,"  Helen  explained.  "  Spring  always 
makes  me  melancholy." 

222 


THE  END  OF  A  DREAM  223 

"  I  wonder,"  she  added  after  a  silence,  "  if  we  are 
ever  again  going  to  have  such  a  winter." 

Emil  tried  to  laugh  away  her  fears. 

"  You  are  a  Jew  through  and  through,"  he  chided 
her  jokingly.  :<  You  cannot  enjoy  the  fleeting 
moment.  You  must  worry,  doubt.  A  strange  trait 
this  is  in  our  race." 

Helen  listened  fondly.     She  loved  to  listen  to  Emil. 

"  I  presume  it  is  only  natural,"  Witte  added,  speak 
ing  slowly,  as  if  to  himself.  "  Two  thousand  years  of 
wanderings  and  migrations,  dotted  heavily  with  perse 
cution,  with  sudden  calamities  coming  as  if  from  the 
clear  sky,  implant  in  men  a  certain  cautiousness,  a  feel 
ing  that  fortune  is  fickle  and  may  turn  traitor  at  any 
moment." 

Both  were  silent  for  a  time. 

They  had  indeed  spent  a  happy  winter.  They  were 
happier  in  New  York  than  they  had  been  in  Chicago. 
Why  ?  The  'answer  lies  in  the  one  unwritten  chapter 
of  modern  psychology  — "  The  Psychology  of  the  Job." 
Thanks  to  the  interest  of  Graves,  Witte  was  given 
consideration  on  the  New  York  Bulletin.  His  stories 
found  a  ready  response.  They  were  given  plenty  of 
space  and  good  display.  The  managing  editor  had 
taken  notice  of  him  on  several  occasions.  He  was 
often  given  the  leading  story  of  the  day.  With  the 
importance  of  the  stories  he  was  doing,  his  own  im 
portance  rose. 


224  WITTE  ARRIVES 

The  cheerful  atmosphere  of  the  office  found  a  ready 
echo  in  his  home  life.  A  month  after  he  had  secured 
the  job  on  the  Bulletin,  Helen  came.  His  salary  on 
the  paper  was  such  that  in  three  weeks'  time  he  had 
saved  sufficient  to  cover  her  traveling  expenses  and  the 
necessary  clothes.  In  one  of  the  model  tenements 
that  were  springing  up  in  certain  parts  of  New  York 
he  found  an  apartment  that  fitted  in  splendidly  with  his 
scheme  of  things.  Rent  was  paid  there  by  the  week. 
No  lease  was  required.  The  tenants  were  given  all 
around  freedom  and  considerable  convenience.  One 
of  the  stores  that  make  a  specialty  of  feathering  such 
nests,  furnished  their  three  rooms  at  convenient  in 
stallment  rates. 

Once  more  delightful  evenings  came  and  Sundays. 
They  went  out  a  good  deal.  They  saw  the  town  and 
observed  the  people.  He  surrendered  himself  entirely 
to  the  duties  of  the  office  and  the  pleasures  of  his  home. 
Yes,  it  was  the  pleasantest  winter  they  had  spent.  In 
spite  of  his  efforts  to  allay  the  doubts  of  his  wife, 
Witte,  too,  was  affected  by  her  simple  question  whether 
they  would  have  another  such  happy  winter.  Would 
they?  Fortune  was  fickle. 

He  made  an  end  to  the  gloomy  meditations  pro 
posing  that  they  ride  out  to  Staten  Island  to  see  the 
awakening  of  spring  in  the  country.  They  left  the 
house  with  the  air  of  children  leaving  school  to  enjoy 
themselves  the  rest  of  the  day  as  they  will  — 


THE  END  OF  A  DREAM  225 

The  summer  proved  even  more  delightful  than  the 
winter.     Life  was  indeed  kind  to  Helen  — 


Early  in  September  Emil  received  a  letter  from  Mr. 
Thornton  of  the  Advance.  The  editor  asked  Witte  to 
call  on  him  the  following  afternoon  with  regard  to  an 
article  he  wanted  him  to  do. 

Thornton  was  very  cordial.  He  was  glad,  he  said, 
Witte  was  doing  so  well  on  the  Bulletin  —  Miss 
Graves  told  him  of  his  success  there.  He  then  ex 
plained  to  him  the  character  of  the  article  he  wanted. 
Witte  plunged  into  work. 

By  the  middle  of  December  the  article  was  ready 
and  he  submitted  it.  He  expected  an  answer  by  New 
Year,  but  Mr.  Thornton  had  left  the  city  for  the 
Christmas  holidays.  Miss  Graves  informed  him  that 
no  decision  would,  in  all  likelihood,  be  reached  on  the 
article  before  the  middle  of  January.  A  lot  of  work 
always  piled  up  after  the  holidays. 

Meantime  Witte  was  thinking  of  his  parents.  The 
letters  from  his  father  were  becoming  more  plaintive. 
The  life  of  a  pedler,  Aaron  wrote  in  his  last,  was  be 
coming  physically  impossible  for  him.  He  could  no 
longer  go  out  into  the  country  for  a  week  at  a  stretch. 
Business  was  slowing  up.  Could  he  find  something  to 
do  in  New  York?  There  were  so  many  Jews  there 
Could  he  buy  a  little  store  in  the  ghetto  and  eke  out 
an  existence  ?  They  were  old  and  did  not  need  much. 


226  WITTE  ARRIVES 

And  if  they  sold  out  everything  in  Spring  Water  they 
would  have  about  five  hundred  dollars.  Would  that 
give  them  a  living?  They  would  be  satisfied  with  any 
kind  of  a  living,  only  to  be  near  him  —  and  among 
Jews. 

His  father's  letter  touched  Emil  deeply,  Aaron  and 
Masha  were  on  the  verge  of  sixty.  They  were  old. 
He  had  meant  to  be  their  support  in  old  age.  What  a 
poor  support  he  was! 

Helen  agreed  with  him  that  it  was  time  for  his 
parents  to  come  to  New  York.  New  York  would  be 
Emil's  permanent  home  henceforth.  He  was  making 
friends  there  in  a  business  way.  He  was  getting  to 
be  known.  The  nearness  of  his  parents  would  mate 
rially  add  to  their  happiness. 

The  next  letter  to  his  parents  was  full  of  hope. 
There  was  no  use  disturbing  things  during  the  winter, 
Emil  wrote.  But  after  the  Passover,  in  the  spring, 
they  would  move  to  New  York.  By  that  time,  too,  he, 
Emil,  might  save  a  small  capital.  If  he  sold  the 
article  to  the  Advance  he  would  have  considerable 
extra  money.  He  could  merge  his  little  capital  with 
his  parents',  if  need  be,  and  help  them  establish  them 
selves  in  a  business  way. 

The  answer  from  his  father  was  one  exalted  cry. 

"  Mother,"  Aaron  wrote,  "  made  me  read  over  the 
letter  to  her  many  times."  They  were  impatient  for 


THE  END  OF  A  DREAM  227 

the  winter  to  pass.  .  .  .  They  would  begin  to  dispose 
of  things  at  once.  .  .  .  They  were  counting  the  days 
when  they  would  be  reunited  with  their  son  in  New 
York.  .  .  . 

The  article  was  accepted  by  Thornton,  and  im 
mediately  following  the  announcement  of  the  accept 
ance  a  check  for  two  hundred  dollars.  With  the  one 
hundred  and  fifty  that  they  had  in  the  bank  Emil 
and  Helen  felt  themselves  rich.  They  now  took 
occasional  strolls  through  the  lower  East  Side  "  with 
an  eye  to  business."  They  were  scanning  the  streets 
for  some  fitting  little  store  for  his  parents. 

A  week  before  the  Passover  Emil  wrote  a  letter  to 
his  father  with  final  instructions  for  the  journey.  It 
was  eleven  o'clock  in  the  evening  when  he  finished  the 
letter.  The  last  collection  of  the  mail  at  the  box 
around  the  corner  was  at  eleven-thirty.  Emil  hastened 
down  the  four  flights  of  stairs  to  mail  it. 

A  messenger  boy  was  scanning  the  cards  in  the  hall 
way.  Witte  was  about  to  pass  him,  but  changed  his 
mind.  He  asked  the  messenger  whom  he  was  looking 
for.  The  latter  showed  him  the  name  on  the  tele 
gram.  It  was  addressed  to  himself. 

Witte  tore  open  the  envelope  and  took  in  the  brief, 
crisp  line  at  a  glance.  It  said :  "  Mother  died  in  four 
hours  from  apoplectic  stroke."  It  was  signed,  "  Alex 
Stein." 


228  WITTE  ARRIVES 

It  was  only  two  years  before  Mrs.  Witte's  death 
that  the  Jews  of  Spring  Water  had  purchased  a  piece 
of  land  a  short  distance  from  the  public  cemetery  and 
consecrated  a  burial  ground  of  their  own.  But  when 
the  first  funeral  was  held,  the  tragedy  of  death  yielded 
in  bitter  poignancy  to  the  grewsomeness  of  a  lonely 
grave.  The  first  to  die  was  a  woman.  When  she 
was  brought  to  the  cemetery  and  her  grown  children 
perceived  the  lonely  grave  in  the  midst  of  the  field, 
a  shudder  ran  through  them.  A  daughter  fainted  and 
a  son,  crazed  with  grief,  attempted  to  stop  the  funeral. 
He  finally  yielded  to  the  entreaties  of  the  older  men, 
sobbing  all  the  while :  "  It  is  cruel,  cruel,  to  bury  a 
woman  in  such  a  lonely  grave  in  a  far-away  land." 

Everybody  wept.  On  the  way  home  Mrs.  Witte 
took  her  husband's  hand,  and  gulping  down  her  tears, 
spoke : 

"If  anything  happens  to  me,  Aaron,  I  want  you  to 

take  me  to  N .  I  want  to  be  buried  among 

Jews.  ...  I  have  been  lonely  —  among  strangers  — 
all  my  life.  .  .  ." 

Aaron  upbraided  her  for  talking  "  such  nonsense." 
Nevertheless  it  was  understood  between  them  that  if 
anything  happened  to  either  of  them,  the  other  was  to 
take  her,  or  him,  to  N for  burial. 

It  was  to  N that  Emil  went  to  meet  the  earthly 

remains  of  his  mother.  It  was  a  drizzly  morning  when 
he  tumbled  out  of  the  train,  red-eyed,  his  clothes 


THE  END  OF  A  DREAM  229 

crumpled  and  his  face  covered  with  a  three  days' 
beard.  He  had  taken  no  sleeper.  He  could  not  think 
of  sleeping,  much  less  of  sleeping  in  comfort,  at  such 
a  time.  .  .  .  His  father,  Harry  and  Clara  were  at  the 
house  of  a  friend.  They  were  awaiting  his  arrival. 
Alex  had  been  there,  but  had  returned  to  Spring 
Water,  and  was  to  be  summoned  by  telegram  when 
Emil  arrived. 

As  he  entered  he  overheard  his  father's  voice. 
Aaron  was  talking  to  a  countryman  of  theirs,  discuss 
ing  a  passage  in  the  Talmud  relating  to  life  after  death. 
The  discussion  was  not  heated,  but  his  father  spoke 
with  considerable  firmness  about  immortality.  Emil 
observed  his  father's  eyes  an  instant  before  the  latter 
saw  him  and  he  was  struck  by  their  peculiar  brilliancy. 

Everybody  crowded  about  him.  Clara  sobbed  and 
moaned.  Harry  inquired  after  his  journey  and  tried 
to  talk  commonplaces  but  his  tongue  moved  with 
difficulty  and  his  eyes  would  not  stay  dry.  Aaron 
alone  maintained  a  semblance  of  poise,  of  calmness, 
but  it  was  a  strange  poise.  His  chin  trembled  several 
times  as  if  it  were  detached  from  the  rest  of  his 
face.  ...  He  urged  the  daughter  to  see  that  they 
prepared  something  to  eat  for  Emil  —  he  must  be 
hungry  after  such  a  long  journey.  Then  he  fussed 
with  Emil's  overcoat  and  suitcase,  changing  them  from 
place  to  place.  .  .  . 

Masha  had  died  on  a  Wednesday  night.     In  view  of 


230  WITTE  ARRIVES 

Emil's  insistence  that  they  wait  with  the  funeral  for 
him,  it  had  to  be  postponed  till  Sunday.  The  Jewish 

undertaker  in  the  N ghetto,  to  whom  the  body 

was  shipped  from  Spring  Water,  had  no  proper  ac 
commodations  to  keep  it  that  length  of  time.  He  sug 
gested  to  Aaron  that  the  city  morgue  was  the  only 
place  where  the  body  could  be  kept  in  a  proper  temper 
ature. 

Aaron  knew  little  about  the  significance  of  a  morgue 
and  consented  to  everything  the  undertaker  said. 
Later  when  his  children,  and  especially  Alex  Stein, 
learned  where  the  body  had  been  taken,  they  raved. 
Still  there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  There  was  no 
other  Jewish  undertaker  in  town.  And  the  morgue, 
if  not  from  a  sentimental,  at  least  from  a  religious 
standpoint,  seemed  preferable  to  a  Christian  under 
taking  establishment. 

The  fact  that  his  mother's  body  was  at  the  morgue 
was  broken  to  Emil  cautiously.  Nevertheless  a 
shudder  of  indignation  ran  through  him.  As  a  re 
porter  in  N he  had  been  to  the  morgue  on  two 

or  three  occasions.  The  thought  of  his  mother's  coffin 
lying  alongside  of  nameless  dead  had  something  humil 
iating,  horrifying  in  it.  However,  he  gained  control 
over  his  feelings  and,  after  making  a  pretense  at  eating 
breakfast,  he  started  off  in  the  company  of  his  father 
and  his  brother  for  the  morgue. 

When  Emil  requested  to  see  his  mother's  body,  the 


THE  END  OF  A  DREAM  231 

attendant  began  to  grumble.  Could  he  not  wait  until 
they  took  her  away  for  burial?  It  was  not  strictly  in 
accordance  with  the  rules  to  open  the  vaults  to  visitors. 
Had  it  been  the  body  of  some  one  who  did  not  concern 
him  personally  that  he  wanted  to  see,  Emil  would  have 
known  how  to  silence  objections  and  gain  his  point. 
As  it  was,  however,  he  listened  helplessly  to  the  stub 
born  drawl  of  the  sluggish  attendant.  Finally  he 
found  his  voice. 

"I  came  all  the  way  from  New  York  here  to  see 
her,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "  over  a  thousand  miles.  I 
won't  be  long — " 

Witte's  discomfitured  attitude  must  have  flattered 
the  morgue  keeper's  vanity.  Apparently  he  had  shown 
the  young  man  before  him  his  power  and  now  he 
would  show  his  generosity.  He  motioned  to  Emil  to 
follow  him  into  the  next  room.  There  without  much 
effort  he  rolled  the  coffin  out  half-way  from  a  vault 
and  removed  the  lid. 

Emil  lifted  a  cloth  and  beheld  his  mother's  face, 
which  was  beginning  to  turn  blue.  In  death,  too,  his 
mother  had  that  same  submissive  and  resigned  look 
which  he  had  always  seen  in  her  face  during  her  life 
time.  He  bent  down  on  his  knees  and  felt  her  hand 
and  face.  They  were  hard  —  frozen. 

"Enough,  Emil,"  his  father  touched  his  shoulder 
after  some  time.  .  .  . 

On  the  way  home  Aaron  related  to  him  the  details 


232  WITTE  ARRIVES 

of  his  mother's  death.  As  she  was  setting  the  table 
for  supper  she  became  dizzy.  He  brought  her  a  glass 
of  water.  She  took  a  sip  of  it,  and  swayed  in  the 
chair.  She  did  not  regain  consciousness  any  more. 

It  was  a  long  ride  through  a  slow- falling  rain  to  the 
cemetery.  There  were  half  a  dozen  people  besides  the 
Witte  family  in  the  cortege.  They  were  all  old  friends 
and  countrymen  of  the  Wittes.  There  is  a  simple  and 
somewhat  hurried  dignity  about  an  orthodox  Jewish 
funeral.  The  undertaker  opened  up  the  coffin  and 
adjusted  the  body.  He  then  produced  a  little  sack  of 
earth  from  Palestine  and  strewed  a  handful  of  it  spar 
ingly  over  the  face  of  the  deceased  —  a  symbol  of  the 
longing  of  the  orthodox  Jew  for  the  land  of  his  ances 
tors,  of  faithfulness  to  it  even  unto  death. 

Just  before  the  coffin  was  lowered  Aaron  bent  over 
his  wife's  body.  He  uncovered  her  face,  and  looking 
at  it,  began  to  speak  to  her  —  asking  her  forgiveness, 
which  is  a  custom  among  Jews.  If  he  had  ever  of 
fended  her  .  .  .  if  he  had  ever  been  rude  or  inatten 
tive,  Aaron  lisped,  he  now  begged  of  her  not  to  carry 
the  earthly  feeling  of  resentment  with  her  into  the  next 
world  —  either  toward  him  or  any  one  else. 

Clara  overheard  her  father's  words  and  fainted. 
The  undertaker;  who  was  on  the  lookout  for  just  such 
a  scene,  took  a  hand  in  the  matter  and  began  to 
expedite  things.  The  body  was  lowered.  Half  a 


THE  END  OF  A  DREAM  233 

dozen  spades  seemed  to  have  risen  from  nowhere,  and 
the  grave  was  rapidly  filling  up  with  wet  clay. 

Emil  watched  the  coffin  disappear  from  view  and 
the  grave  fill  up  on  a  level  with  the  ground.  Then  a 
little  mound  rose  over  it.  He  stood  and  looked  at  it 
like  a  stone  figure  until  the  sexton  gave  him  a  sharp 
pull  by  the  sleeve. 

The  sexton  placed  Emil  alongside  of  his  brother 
Harry.  They  formed  the  center  of  a  little  group.  He 
and  his  brother  were  handed  a  framed  parchment  upon 
which  was  inscribed  the  "  Kadosh,"  the  prayer  for  the 
dead. 

As  a  child,  when  Witte  was  still  in  Russia,  he  had 
seen  little  orphans  lined  up  near  the  altar  in  the  syna 
gogue  morning  and  evening,  reciting  the  "  Kadosh." 

As  these  orphans  chanted  the  prayer  they  were  in 
variably  watched  by  the  entire  congregation.  In  the 
streets  these  little  children  might  be  ignored,  but  in 
the  synagogue  they  commanded  respect.  For  here 
they  were  doing  duty  by  their  dead.  They  prayed  for 
them.  That  invested  them  with  much  dignity  in  the 
eyes  of  the  onlookers,  with  much  importance. 

The  sing-song  in  which  the  prayer  is  recited  now 
came  to  Emil  as  if  he  had  heard  it  only  yesterday. 
The  words  came  to  tym  clearly,  naturally.  ...  Of 
course  the  prayer  meant  nothing  to  him  any  longer. 
It  was  far  removed  from  his  own  religious  convictions, 
or  perhaps  lack  of  convictions.  But  he  recited  these 


234  WITTE  ARRIVES 

words  feelingly.  For  he  knew  that  could  his  mother 
see  him  standing  there,  reciting  the  "  Kadosh " 
over  her  grave,  it  would  have  made  her  immensely 
happy.  .  .  .  She  had  so  feared  that  her  sons  would 
dispense  with  the  "  Kadosh,"  would  consider  the  prayer 
too  old-fashioned  in  this  busy,  American  world.  .  .  . 

Aaron  insisted  on  celebrating  the  Passover,  which 
was  two  days  off,  at  home,  and  immediately  after  the 
funeral  they  took  the  train  for  Spring  Water.  He 
insisted  that  his  children  gather  at  his  house.  None 
of  the  children  found  voice  to  oppose  him.  It  was 
evident  that  he  was  trying  to  postpone  his  leave-taking 
from  family  life,  from  a  home  of  his  own,  for  another 
few  days.  It  was  too  much  to  break  away  all  at  once. 

He  solemnized  Passover  Eve  in  the  wonted  manner. 
He  recited  the  story  of  Israel's  exodus  from  Egypt  in 
the  same  triumphant  sing-song  in  which  he  had  recited 
it  ever  since  he  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table  —  which 
was  nearly  forty  years.  Several  times,  however,  he 
looked  to  his  right  where  his  wife  was  wont  to  sit, 
as  if  expecting  her  to  hand  him  this  or  the  other  glass, 
or  dish,  in  accordance  with  the  rites  of  the  "  Seder." 
But  Masha  was  not  there  to  assist  him.  Once  or  twice 
there  was  a  tremor  in  Aaron's  voice  as  he  recited.  A 
sharp  memory  flitted  across  his  brain.  But  the  tremor 
lasted  only  an  instant  and  he  was  himself  again.  The 


THE  END  OF  A  DREAM  23$ 

forced  composure  of  the  old  man  —  Aaron  was  nearly 
all  white  now  —  only  heightened  the  sense  of  horror 
of  their  loss.  .  .  . 

In  the  course  of  the  next  few  days,  when  Aaron 
thought  no  one  saw  him,  he  walked  from  room  to  room, 
searched  every  nook  and  cranny,  picked  up  a  piece  of 
cotton  or  a  needle  and  looked  at  it  long.  Once  Emil 
found  his  father  in  the  clothes-closet  smoothing 
Masha's  garments  tenderly,  wiping  a  fleck  of  dust  here 
and  there,  as  if  expecting  that  she  would  return  any 
moment  and  would  wear  them  once  more. 

It  was  with  great  effort  that  Emil  brought  himself 
to  speak  of  his  father's  future.  He  wanted  Aaron  to 
go  with  him  to  New  York.  But  the  latter  shook  his 
head  negatively.  He  would  feel  better  in  Spring 
Water.  It  was  nearer  to  N — — .  He  could  run  out 
there  occasionally,  and  visit.  ...  He  would  stay  with 
Clara. 

The  next  morning  Emil  took  the  train  for  New 
York. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE    PROMISE 

THE  wound  was  slow  in  healing.  His  mother's 
death  had  become  the  pivot  about  which  his 
thoughts  revolved.  Everything  began  and  ended  with 
it.  In  the  morning,  when  he  awoke,  he  said  to  himself 
that  this  was  the  twenty-ninth  or  the  thirty-fifth  day 
since  she  had  died.  Going  up  in  the  elevator  to  the 
office  he  saw  a  girl  holding  a  bunch  of  lilacs- — May 
had  already  come  —  and  this  suggested  to  him  that  his 
mother  would  never  more  enjoy  the  sight  of  a  flower. 
In  City  Hall  Park  the  grass  looked  especially  green  and 
fresh  —  and  his  mind  wandered  to  his  mother's  grave. 
Was  grass  growing  on  it  already  ? 

Deep  down  in  his  heart  there  was  a  gnawing  re 
proach —  he  should  have  succeeded  sooner.  His 
mother  would  perhaps  still  be  living  if  he  had.  Her 
loneliness,  her  longing  for  him,  and  worry  over  his  un 
settled  existence,  might  have  hastened  her  death.  .  .  . 
What  did  success  avail  now?  She  would  never  see 
it.  She  would  never  more  be  proud  of  him.  .  .  . 

Nevertheless  it  was  success  that  made  him  forget  his 
great  loss  for  any  length  of  time.  Now  more  than 

236 


THE  PROMISE  237 

ever  he  felt  like  writing.  He  craved  stories  with  con 
suming  tragedy  in  them.  To  write  such  stories  gave 
him  pleasure;  to  draw  a  picture  which  would  make 
the  reader  gasp  for  breath  was  real  happiness. 

And  such  stories  now  came  his  way  —  or  perhaps 
he  went  out  of  his  way  in  search  of  them.  He  wrote 
in  succession  three  or  four  pathetic  pieces  of  which 
every  one  in  the  office  took  notice. 

The  more  pathos  he  put  into  the  stories  he  wrote, 
the  more  his  own  pain  was  stilled.  To  ruminate  over 
the  sorrows  and  tragedies  which  came  to  his  desk  in 
skeletonized  reports  from  police  courts  and  morgues 
and  almshouses,  \vas  to  detract  unconsciously  from  the 
poignancy  of  his  own  grief.  He  was  not  the  only  one 
to  suffer  from  the  cruelty  and  capriciousness  of  fate. 

One  day  the  realization  came  to  him  that  in  his  grief 
for  the  dead  he  was  committing  a  grievous  injustice 
toward  the  living.  He  had  neglected  his  wife.  Ever 
since  he  had  come  back  from  Spring  Water  Helen  had 
tended  to  him  as  if  he  were  a  sick  child.  She  left 
him  alone  with  his  great  sadness  whenever  he  wanted 
to  be  alone.  Yet  she  was  always  there  to  see  that  he 
got  every  comfort  possible.  She  took  his  long  hours 
of  silence,  his  craving  for  seclusion,  patiently  and  with 
out  a  murmur. 

It  was  while  he  was  sitting  in  the  office  and  listening 
to  the  rumbling  of  the  press  below  that  these  thoughts 
about  his  wife  came  to  him.  As  if  awakening  from  a 


238  WITTE  ARRIVES 

long  sleep  he  suddenly  realized  what  the  two  months, 
which  he  had  lived  in  a  sort  of  trance,  must  have 
meant  to  Helen.  He  became  hot  all  over.  Shame 
and  pity  diffused  through  his  brain  and  heart.  He 
wished  the  day  were  over  and  he  could  rush  home  and 
tell  Helen  how  guilty  he  felt  toward  her,  how  dear  she 
was  to  him. 

Helen,  meantime,  was  standing  beside  the  small  fire 
place,  upon  which  their  dinner  was  cooking,  sunk  in 
reveries.  She  had  felt  happier  that  day  than  she  had 
felt  in  a  long  time.  She  could  not  give  any  reason  for 
her  feeling  thus.  It  was  just  a  singing  of  the  heart 
which  comes  and  goes  as  it  pleases.  She  tried  to  give 
expression  to  her  happiness  in  the  meal  she  was  making 
for  the  evening.  She  thought  of  the  dishes  Emil  was 
especially  fond  of  and  was  preparing  them. 

She  looked  at  the  clock.  It  was  five-thirty,  the  hour 
Emil  usually  came.  She  ran  to  the  mirror  to  tidy  her 
self.  Her  cheeks  were  burning  red  from  work  and 
excitement.  .  .  .  Once  or  twice  she  looked  out  of  the 
window,  but  she  did  not  see  him  coming.  Then,  just 
as  she  was  getting  her  mind  off  him  for  a  moment  and 
beginning  to  maneuver  one  of  the  pots  which  was  in 
danger  of  burning,  there  was  an  abortive  ring  of  the 
bell,  and  in  half  the  usual  time  she  heard  Emil's  rapid, 
clambering  footsteps.  He  was  evidently  running  up 
the  stairs.  She  opened  the  door  and  stood  there 
flushed  and  smiling,  waiting  for  him.  He  too  was 


THE  PROMISE  239 

flushed,  and  out  of  breath  from  running.  His  eyes 
had  a  liquid  brilliance  and  on  his  lips  there  was  a  smile 
which  had  been  missing  for  months. 

He  clasped  her  in  his  arms  and  held  her  with  such  a 
vehemence  as  if  he  were  defending  his  right  to  her 
against  a  thousand  hands  that  were  stretching  out  to 
separate  them.  .  .  . 

The  summer  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  Emil  de 
termined  to  make  the  most  of  the  few  Sundays  that 
were  left. 

"  Suppose  you  meet  me  at  four  o'clock  this  after 
noon  and  we  will  take  a  ride  to  Rockaway  Beach,"  he 
suggested  to  Helen  as  he  started  to  go  to  work  one 
Saturday  morning. 

Helen  reflected  a  moment  and  declined  to  come  out. 

"Better  come  home  when  you  get  through/'  she 
said,  "  and  we  will  go  out  around  here.  I  am  not  quite 
well  to-day/' 

Emil  gave  her  a  worried  look.  He  had  noticed  that 
she  had  grown  paler. 

"  Don't  look  so  alarmed,"  she  smiled  back.  "  It  is 
not  anything  serious,  I  just  don't  feel  quite  right. 
Maybe  I  will  change  my  mind  later,  and  we  will  go  to 
Rockaway  Beach  after  all." 

He  was  uneasy  about  Helen  all  morning.  In  the 
afternoon  he  looked  at  his  watch  every  ten  minutes. 
If  only  a  good  story  would  come  his  way,  a  story  that 


240  WITTE  ARRIVES 

would  absorb  him  and  take  his  mind  off  his  own 
affairs  for  some  time.  But  there  were  no  big  stories 
breaking.  It  was  a  quiet  Saturday.  The  copy  readers 
were  letting  items  run  long,  for  there  was  nothing  of 
importance  coming  in  for  the  late  editions  to  make 
room  fo^. 

The  suspense  worried  him.  He  climbed  the  steps 
to  the  elevated  heavily.  As  he  approached  the  house 
he  looked  up  to  see  if  Helen  was  at  the  window.  She 
was  not  there.  She  came  to  the  door,  however. 

She  had  been  lying  on  the  couch  in  the  sitting-room, 
which  was  also  EmiFs  workroom,  though  he  had  not 
worked  much  since  his  mother's  death.  She  went  back 
to  the  couch  and  lay  down.  Bmil  sat  beside  her.  He 
pressed  her  hand.  Her  face  suddenly  became  crimson. 

"  You  are  sick,"  he  said,  worried. 

She  turned  her  eyes  away  from  him  and  began  to 
cry  softly. 

He  looked  puzzled. 

"Is  there  any  bad  news?"  he  asked.  "From 
home?  From  your  folks  —  from  Russia?" 

She  shook  her  head  negatively. 

He  took  her  head  in  his  hands  and  kissed  Her  hair. 
She  curled  up  and  leaned  against  his  breast. 

"  Emil." 

He  looked  into  her  face  quickly.  There  was  sus 
pense,  almost  fear  in  his  eyes.  That  amused  her. 
She  laughed. 


THE  PROMISE  241 

"  You  poor  boy,"  she  said,  "  you  remember  you 
asked  me.  .  .  .  Well,  it  has  come.  .  .  .  You  are  going 
to  be  a  father." 

"  I  could  not  tell  you  this  in  the  morning,"  she  said 
when  she  had  freed  herself  from  his  passionate  em 
braces,  "  because  I  could  not  bear  to  be  away  from  you 
all  day  after  having  told  you." 

They  did  not  go  out.  For  hours  they  sat  talking  in 
tender  whispers  about  their  unborn  child  and  all  that 
he  would  mean  to  them,  the  great  void  he  would  fill  in 
their  existence,  the  zest  he  would  add  to  his,  Emil's 
work. 

Yes,  he  could  work  again  now.  The  spell  of  inac 
tivity  was  broken.  The  feeling  of  futility  which  had 
torn  his  soul  since  his  mother's  death  had  disappeared. 

He  forgot  what  it  was  to  brood  about  death.  He 
was  dreaming  of  life.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XIX 

HELEN   DIES 

THE  pfiysician  figured  that  it  would  be  an  April 
baby. 

"  You  were  a  trifle  hasty,"  he  said  with  a  twinkle. 
"  The  most  convenient  time  for  a  baby  to  come  into  the 
world  —  from  the  baby's  point  of  view  —  is  in  the  last 
part  of  May  or  early  in  June.  The  unsteady  spring 
weather  is  over  by  that  time.  It  begins  to  get  warm, 
and  little  babies  like  little  birds  want  warmth.  They 
like  the  sun." 

Dr.  Ochsner  was  one  of  the  pioneers  of  the  Russian 
Jewish  colony  in  New  York.  His  name  was  not 
known  to  the  medical  world,  though  he  was  a  well- 
educated,  conscientious  physician.  His  interests  lay 
not  so  much  in  the  direction  of  scientific  medicine  as  in 
the  social  problems  which  his  practice  on  the  East  Side 
unraveled  before  his  eyes  daily. 

He  was  a  freqent  contributor  to  certain  Yiddish 
journals  of  socialistic  tendencies. 

"  Yes,"  Dr.  Ochsner  continued,  "  babies  need  sun 
shine.  That  is  the  principal  trouble  with  our  babies 

242 


HELEN  DIES  243 

in  New  York  —  they  live  away  from  the  sun.  Our 
landlords  put  a  ban  on  sunshine  in  their  tenement 
houses.  They  value  space  far  too  much  to  '  waste  '  it. 
Why  admit  Old  Sol  free  when  you  can  let  in  a  boarder 
in  a  windowless  bedroom  for  six  dollars  a  month? 
The  ancients  worshiped  the  sun.  Would  that  we  too 
learned  to  worship  the  sun,  instead  of  worshiping  the 
Almighty  Dollar!" 

"  Is  this  your  first  baby?  "  the  physician  asked. 

Helen  and  Emil  exchanged  a  swift  look  and  both 
said,  "  Yes."  Dr.  Ochsner  observed  the  expression  in 
their  faces  and  made  a  mental  note  of  their  "  Yes." 

Just  before  Christmas  Witte  got  an  offer  from  the 
editor  of  the  Morning  Leader  to  go  to  work  for  that 
paper.  He  sought  out  Graves  and  asked  his  advice. 

"  Accept  it,"  Graves  said  unhesitatingly.  "  Take  it 
by  all  means.  You  will  get  a  chance  there  to  show 
yourself.  You  cannot  write  a  good  story  on  an  after 
noon  paper.  Everything  has  to  be  written  in  a  hurry. 
The  Leader  will  give  you  a  chance  to  write." 

Still  Witte  had  his  misgivings  about  accepting  the 
job  on  account  of  Helen.  In  her  delicate  condition 
it  was  a  great  comfort  to  be  at  home  evenings.  On  the 
Leader  he  would  have  to  work  until  one  in  the  morn 
ing. 

Though  Helen  received  the  news  with  a  slight  pang, 
she  did  not  show  it.  She  did  not  falter  an  instant,  but 
agreed  with  Graves  that  Emil  must  accept  the  job.  He 


244  WITTE  ARRIVES 

must  not  throw  aside  anything  in  the  way  of  advance 
ment. 

Even  after  Witte  left  the  Bulletin,  Graves'  interest 
in  him  did  not  flag.  On  the  contrary  he  was  watching 
the  reporter  more  eagerly  than  ever  and  was  glad  of 
every  opportunity  to  be  of  help  to  him.  Such  oppor 
tunities  came.  While  dining  in  the  Press  Club  Graves 
saw  West  enter.  West  was  the  city  editor  of  the 
Leader.  He  made  room  for  him  at  his  own  table  and 
much  of  the  conversation  during  the  meal  centered 
about  Witte. 

It  would  be  hard  to  explain  what  caused  such  deep 
attachment  and  interest  to  spring  up  in  Graves  for  such 
an  utter  stranger  as  Witte.  Perhaps  the  chief  reason 
was  that  Graves  was  a  bachelor  in  the  forties  and  was 
completely  free  from  domestic  worries  of  any  sort. 
He  was  not  averse  to  having  a  protege.  His  interest 
in  Witte  was  stimulated,  too,  by  his  sister's  telling  him 
of  the  latter 's  untiring  efforts  at  writing,  in  spite  of  all 
discouragements,  in  spite  of  continuous  refusals  by 
editors  to  accept  his  manuscript,  which  Miss  Graves, 
as  Mr.  Thornton's  secretary,  was  in  a  position  to  know. 

Then,  too,  Witte's  writing  on  the  Bulletin  was  full 
of  surprises. 

"  Witte's  stories  are  different,"  the  city  editor  of  the 
Bulletin  had  once  said  to  Graves.  "  What  to  another 
reporter  would  be  a  simple  case  of  assault  and  battery, 
under  Witte's  research  and  investigation,  grows  into 


HELEN  DIES  245 

human  tragedy.  Long  forgotten  causes,  hidden  fam 
ily  skeletons  are  dragged  out  into  the  light.  He  does 
not  let  the  police  and  the  coroner  give  him  the  news  — 
he  goes  into  the  home,  he  digs  into  life.  He  finds  the 
motive  behind  the  crime,  and  the  cause  behind  the  sin." 

This  going  behind  the  scenes  in  every  story,  the 
constant  searching  for  motives  and  causes  of  crime  and 
sin  and  misery,  soon  came  to  the  surface  on  the  Leader. 
Witte  made  the  first  page  of  the  Leader  frequently. 
A  few  of  the  stories  he  wrote  were  first-page  stories  to 
begin  with  and  were  deliberately  assigned  to  him.  But 
there  were  other  stories  of  his  on  the  first  page  not 
because  they  were  in  themselves  so  significant,  but  be 
cause  of  the  manner  in  which  they  were  written.  The 
human  touch  in  them  forced  them  to  the  front. 

"  I  like  the  way  you  handled  the  kid  story  this 
morning,"  West  once  said  to  him.  "  Keep  on  writing 
in  this  vein  —  that  is,  without  regard  to  rules.  I  don't 
care  whether  you  get  the  news  in  the  first  paragraph 
or  in  the  last,  provided  the  story  is  written  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  compel  the  reader  to  read  it  from  be 
ginning  to  end.  Give  yourself  freedom  in  the  matter 
of  style.  Write  the  way  you  think  you  ought  to  write, 
the  way  you  feel  like  writing." 

When  Witte  figured  up  his  income  at  the  end  of  two 
months  he  found  that  he  had  averaged  fifty-eight 
dollars  a  week. 

"  And  now  let  him  come,"  he  said,  looking  mis- 


246  WITTE  ARRIVES 

chievously  at  Helen.  "  I  am  ready  for  him.  I  can 
give  him  a  fairly  good  reception." 

Helen  rejoined  in  the  same  mischievous  vein :  "  It 
is  going  to  be  a  girl.  .  .  ." 

"  I  want  a  girl,"  she  continued  with  feigned  sulki- 
ness  in  her  voice.  "  I  am  putting  pink  ribbon  on  all 
her  dresses.  I  want  a  companion  for  Mamma.  .  .  ." 

"  It  is  going  to  be  a  boy,"  Emil  responded  with  mock 
firmness.  "  It  cannot  be  helped,  my  dear.  We  just 
have  to  have  a  chubby  boy  in  the  family." 

From  the  figures  of  his  earnings  Witte  turned  to  the 
figures  of  his  savings.  They  had  over  five  hundred 
dollars  in  the  bank  and  they  felt  very  rich.  Their 
child  would  not  be  born  into  want.  .  .  . 

Returning  from  work  past  midnight  one  night  late 
in  the  month  of  March,  Emil  found  Helen  pacing  up 
and  down  the  floor  in  pain.  She  had  been  ill  all 
evening.  At  first  she  could  hardly  take  a  step.  But 
she  was  getting  a  trifle  better.  There  was  no  need  of 
calling  a  doctor  at  such  an  hour,  but  they  would  call 
him  in  the  morning1. 

Dr.  Ochsner  came  and  examined  the  patient.  He 
prescribed  some  medicine. 

"  You  might  telephone  up  to  me  to-morrow  how  you 
feel,"  he  said  before  leaving.  "  I  will  come  and  see 
you  again  in  two  days,  when  I  hear  from  the  labor 
atory." 


HELEN  DIES  247 

Helen  divided  the  day  between  mental  and  physical 
anguish.  For  whenever  she  was  ill  the  thought  of 
home,  her  parents,  her  mother  came  to  her  with  agon 
izing  persistency.  Frequently  in  such  periods  of 
mental  and  physical  pain  she  would  pen  a  letter  to  her 
parents  asking  them  to  come  to  America,  to  be  near 
her.  Invariably  she  tore  such  letters  up  with  a  feeling 
of  shame.  How  could  they  leave  Russia  while  her 
sister  was  immured  in  Siberia?  How  selfish  of  her  to 
entertain  such  desires  in  the  face  of  her  sister's  martyr 
dom! 

But  she  pined  for  her  parents  and  sister  all  the  same. 
Oh,  what  a  help  her  sister  would  have  been  to  her  now 
—  in  these  circumstances.  She  sobbed  softly  as  she 
thought  of  it.  ...  Weakness  overcame  her,  she  fell 
asleep  and  —  both  physical  and  political  barriers  were 
removed.  She  and  her  parents  were  together.  The 
Atlantic  ocean,  Siberia  and  Russian  autocracy,  all 
seemed  to  have  evaporated  as  if  in  response  to  the  wave 
of  a  magic  wand,  and  she  and  her  older  sister  were 
walking  hand  in  hand  through  a  beautiful  garden, 
clinging  to  each  other,  gazing  into  each  other's 
eyes.  .  .  . 

It  was  while  Helen  was  walking  through  this  magic 
garden,  which  the  realm  of  sleep  alone  can  conjure  into 
existence,  that  Emil  quietly  let  himself  into  the  apart 
ment  with  a  latchkey.  He  walked  over  to  where  his 
wife  lay  on  the  couch  on  tiptoe  and  looked  at  her 


248  WITTE  ARRIVES 

for  several  moments.  She  opened  her  eyes  sud 
denly. 

"  Oh,  I  had  such  a  nice  dream/'  she  said,  and  pro 
ceeded  to  narrate  it. 

She  was  not  much  better.  The  medicine  did  not 
seem  to  do  her  much  good.  In  the  morning,  they 
decided,  they  would  call  Dr.  Ochsner  once  more. 
They  spent  the  remainder  of  the  night  restlessly. 
Emil  did  not  fall  asleep  until  nearly  daybreak.  At  ten 
o'clock  he  was  awakened  by  a  loud  ringing.  He 
opened  the  door  and  faced  Dr.  Ochsner. 

"  I  got  the  laboratory  report  just  about  half  an  hour 
ago  in  the  mail/'  the  physician  said  with  an  effort  at 
calmness.  "Your  wife  must  go  to  the  hospital  at 
once.  There  is  not  a  minute  to  lose.  It  is  a  case  of 
nephritis,"  he  added,  when  he  saw  Witte  looking  at 
him  dumfounded. 

They  broke  the  news  to  Helen  cautiously.  In  the 
first  few  minutes  she  thought  that  going  to  the  hospital 
was  still  a  thing  of  the  future,  though  near  future. 
When  told,  however,  that  she  must  dress  and  leave  the 
house  immediately,  she  blanched.  Emil  cheered  and 
encouraged  her,  but  his  own  face  was  bloodless. 
Helen  bit  her  lips  and  dressed  as  fast  as  her  limp  arms 
would  permit.  .  .  . 

In  the  hospital,  as  she  was  led  from  the  bathroom 
to  the  ward  by  the  attendant,  she  caught  sight  of  Emil's 
distressed  face  which  was  staring  blankly  ahead,  help- 


HELEN  DIES  249 

lessness  written  all  over  it.  She  broke  down  and  began 
to  cry.  He  saw  her  and  was  at  her  side  in  an  instant. 
Dr.  Ochsner  came  up  and  upbraided  her  good-naturedly 
for  "  acting  so  childish."  She  was  led  into  the  ward, 
the  nurse  shutting  the  door  in  Emil's  face. 

When  Dr.  Ochsner  emerged  from  the  ward  and  saw 
Emil  still  waiting,  his  lips  assumed  a  thin  smile. 

"It  will  be  several  days,"  he  explained,  "before 
anything  will  be  known  definitely.  You  can  call 
around  here  any  time  you  like." 

"  Is  she  in  danger?  "  Witte  asked. 

"  Every  woman  who  is  about  to  give  birth  to  a  child 
is  more  or  less  in  danger,"  said  the  physician.  "  How 
ever,  we  will  pull  her  through  without  any  trouble." 

Dr.  Ochsner  shot  a  quick,  inquisitive  look  at  Witte. 

"  I  don't  like  to  pry  into  personal  affairs  too  much," 
he  said,  "  but  is  this  Mrs.  Witte's  first  child  ?  Has  she 
ever  had  a  miscarriage  ?  It  is  well  to  know  it." 

Witte  admitted  she  had. 

'  There  are  altogether  too  many  of  these  things 
happening,"  Dr.  Ochsner  said  with  a  far-off  look,  "  for 
the  health  of  the  mothers  and  the  good  of  the  race." 

For  several  days  in  succession  Emil  visited  Helen  in 
her  ward  twice  a. day.  One  afternoon  a  nurse  met  him 
at  the  door  and  told  him  that  Mrs.  Witte  could  not  be 
seen.  Persistent  questioning  was  met  with  persistent 
indefiniteness  of  answer. 

Witte  rang  up  Dr.  Ochsner.     The  physician  was  not 


250  WITTE  ARRIVES 

in.  He  rang  again  at  six.  The  physician  gave  him 
little  satisfaction  and  advised  him  to  call  at  nine.  He 
called  at  nine.  Dr.  Ochsner  was  busy,  he  could  not 
be  called  to  the  telephone. 

Witte  had  hardly  hung  up  the  receiver  when  the 
editor  called  him  over. 

"  Whip  this  into  a  story,"  West  said,  handing  him 
some  copy  evidently  written  by  a  young  reporter. 
Witte  quickly  began  to  gather  the  loose  ends  of  an 
elopement  story.  He  telephoned  to  police  headquar 
ters,  and  not  getting  any  satisfaction,  he  ran  over  there 
himself.  It  was  ten  o'clock  by  the  time  he  had  the 
story  well  in  hand.  The  editor  wanted  it  for  the  first 
edition.  There  was  not  a  minute  to  lose. 

Before  he  had  finished  with  it,  however,  he  was 
handed  some  more  copy  to  rewrite.  It  was  twelve 
when  he  finally  cleared  his  desk.  He  rang  up  the 
hospital.  An  attendant  said  he  would  make  inquiries. 

"  A  still-birth,"  the  attendant's  voice  came  over  the 
wire  after  a  space  of  half  a  minute. 

"A  what?"  Witte  demanded. 

"  A  still-birth,  a  dead  baby,"  the  voice  at  the  other 
end  of  the  wire  drawled. 

Ten  minutes  later  Witte  was  at  the  hospital.  Could 
he  see  his  wife?  The  attendant,  a  placid  Swede, 
looked  at  him  with  astonishment,  as  if  Witte  had  asked 
him  if  it  was  not  possible  to  change  night  into  day 
light.  It  could  not  be  done.  Emil  persisted.  He 


HELEN  DIES  251 

must  see  his  wife  for  one  moment.  The  night  watch 
man  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  called  an  interne. 
The  interne  was  more  sympathetic,  but  it  was  im 
possible.  It  was  against  the  rules  of  the  institution. 
Besides  Mrs.  Witte  was  not  in  a  condition  to  be  dis 
turbed. 

Emil  roused  Dr.  Ochsner  out  of  bed.  He  came  out 
dressed  in  a  bathrobe. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  the  physician,  as  he  led  Witte 
into  his  office.  "  But  the  baby  could  not  be  saved. 
It  had  been  dead  for  some  days." 

Emil  looked  stony. 

"  I  would  not  worry  about  the  child,"  the  physician 
continued.  "  Rather  ought  you  to  be  thankful  that 
your  wife  was  saved.  Such  cases  often  end  badly  for 
the  mother." 

"  How  is  she  ?  "  Emil  asked  quickly. 

"  Oh,  fairly  well  —  as  well  as  could  be  expected 
under  the  circumstances." 

"  Is  she  out  of  danger?  " 

Dr.  Ochsner  tried  to  hide  his  answer  behind  a 
smile. 

"  I  think  it  will  come  out  all  right,"  he  said. 

Helen  was  not  out  of  danger.  When  Emil  saw  her 
the  next  morning  she  was  very  weak.  In  the  after 
noon  she  had  fever  and  later  became  delirious. 

For  five  days  her  life  hung  in  the  balance.  Then  a 
slight  improvement  was  noted.  He  spent  much  of  his 


252  WITTE  ARRIVES 

time  at  or  near  the  hospital  now.  On  the  eighth  day 
she  was  considerably  improved.  Emil  could  have 
cried  for  happiness  at  the  return  of  intelligence  into  her 
eyes.  The  following  day,  in  spite  of  the  physician's 
injunction  not  to  tax  her  with  too  much  conversation, 
he  told  her  of  a  letter  he  had  received  that  morning 
from  the  editor  of  the  Universe  saying  that  there  was 
a  series  of  articles  he  wanted  him  to  do.  What  a 
happy  life  they  would  lead  yet!  Let  her  only  come 
out  of  the  hospital ! 

A  faint  flush  came  into  Helen's  face,  a  flush  of 
happiness  and  triumph.  She  knew  those  letters  would 
come  to  Emil.  She  was  not  deceived  in  him. 

She  asked  after  the  baby.  Had  Emil  seen  it  at 
least,  and  what  disposition  had  been  made  of  it?  She 
had  wanted  to  see  it  badly,  but  the  doctor  would  not 
permit.  .  .  . 

Emil  cheered  her.  Helen  drank  in  every  word  of 
his.  It  was  like  a  tonic  to  her.  She  asked  after  their 
home.  Everything  must  be  covered  with  dust  an  inch 
thick,  she  said. 

"  You  look  bad,"  she  added,  as  he  was  leaving.  "  I 
am  afraid  by  the  time  I  get  out  of  here,  you  will  be 
fit  for  the  hospital." 

The  nurse  had  warned  him  for  the  third  time  that 
he  must  go.  He  took  Helen's  hand  to  his  lips  and  held 
it  there  long.  Then  he  pressed  a  kiss  on  her  cheek. 
Tears  suddenly  came  welling  from  his  eyes.  He  felt 


HELEN  DIES  253 

that  he  was  losing  all  control  over  himself.  Hastily 
he  ran  out  of  the  room. 

The  instant  Emil  was  out  of  the  room  Helen's  fever 
rose. 

That  night  Emil  planned  to  get  a  good  long  sleep. 
He  needed  it.  He  went  straight  home  from  the  office 
and  into  bed.  He  was  asleep  in  a  few  moments. 

A  prolonged  ringing  roused  him.  At  first  he 
thought  that  the  bell  was  ringing  in  a  neighbor's  apart 
ment.  But  as  the  ringing  persisted,  he  realized  that  it 
was  his  bell.  He  went  to  the  door.  A  messenger 
handed  him  a  telegram.  He  called  the  boy  into  the 
room  and  glanced  at  the  clock  in  passing.  It  was 
nearly  five. 

The  telegram  was  from  the  hospital.  Helen  had 
suffered  a  relapse  and  her  case  was  serious. 

"  No  answer,"  he  said  to  the  boy. 

He  was  in  the  office  of  the  hospital  a  little  before  six 
o'clock.  The  night  attendant,  sleepier  than  ever, 
motioned  to  him  to  go  right  up.  He  walked  up  three 
flights  of  stairs.  The  elevator  was  not  yet  running. 
The  ward  his  wife  was  in  lay  at  the  end  of  the  corridor. 
Midway  up  the  hall  he  came  upon  a  wheel  cot  which 
stood  to  one  side  and  was  hidden  from  view  by  a  white 
screen.  He  had  no  clear  notion  what  that  might  be, 
but  the  sight  of  it  terrified  him.  He  entered  the  ward 
and  on  tiptoe  stole  up  to  the  bed  Helen  occupied.  She 
was  not  there.  ,  .  He  wondered  if  he  had  made  a 


254  WITTE  ARRIVES 

mistake  and  got  off  at  the  wrong  floor.  He  made  a 
dash  for  the  door  and  was  face  to  face  with  the  nurse. 

"  Oh/'  she  gasped,  when  she  recognized  Witte. 

"  Where  is  she  ?  "  he  demanded  hoarsely.  "  What 
has  happened  ?  " 

The  nurse  walked  down  the  hall  hastily.  Emil  fol 
lowed.  She  stopped  in  front  of  the  screened  wheel 
cot.  She  removed  the  screen.  Emil  threw  himself 
over  his  wife's  rigid  body.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XX 

GRAY   DAYS 

WHEN  Witte  lifted  his  dry  eyes  from  the  face 
of  his  dead  wife,  he  was  confronted  with  the 
problem  of  the  disposition  of  the  body.  He  had  no 
experience  in  such  matters,  and  he  stood  there  thinking 
rather  unclearly,  when  an  interne  came  to  his  assist 
ance. 

Witte  explained  to  him  briefly  that  they  were 
strangers  in  New  York,  that  he  had  no  friends  and 
knew  no  one. 

(  You'd  better  see  the  superintendent  of  the  hospital 
as  soon  as  he  comes,"  the  interne  counseled. 

The  superintendent  gave  him  the  name  of  a  Jewish 
undertaker. 

"  He  will  do  the  right  thing  by  you,"  he  said. 

For  a  long  time  Witte  debated  with  himself  whether 
to  notify  Graves  or  not.  His  friendship  with  Graves 
had  hitherto  been  purely  an  office  affair.  Graves 
knew,  of  course,  that  Witte  was  married.  He  knew 
when  Helen  came  to  New  York.  Once  or  twice  he 
asked  Witte  how  his  wife  liked  the  city,  and  there  the 

255 


256  WITTE  ARRIVES 

matter  ended.  Witte  had  never  invited  Graves  to  his 
home. 

It  would  have  been  hard  for  Emil  to  explain  just 
why  he  had  hesitated  to  invite  so  good  a  friend  as 
Graves  to  his  home.  Off-hand  he  might  have 
answered  that  the  house  was  not  exactly  what  he 
wished  it  to  be.  It  was  still  more  of  a  roost  than  a 
home.  He  might  have  said,  too,  that  Graves  being 
so  much  older  than  himself,  and  an  editor,  while  he 
was  only  a  reporter,  he  did  not  feel  that  it  was  right 
to  bring  down  their  professional  friendship  to  a  purely 
personal,  family  basis.  But  these  would  only  be  make- 
believe  answers. 

The  real  reason  why  he  never  invited  Graves  to  the 
house  was  that  he  was  a  Jew  and  Graves  a  Gentile. 
Isolated  experiences,  a  few  of  them  going  back  to  his 
college  days,  had  forced  upon  him  the  conviction  that 
the  anti-social  attitude  which  Christians  were  taking 
toward  Jews  in  the  old  world  had  not  entirely  been 
overcome  in  the  new.  And  friendship  with  a  Gentile 
had  best  not  be  pushed  too  far. 

He  had  seen  Jew  and  Gentile  mingle  in  offices  in 
Chicago.  They  were  friends.  They  had  confidences, 
their  common  secrets.  But  this  was  all  during  work 
ing  hours.  After  office  hours  their  ways  parted.  The 
social  life  of  the  Gentile  was  not  the  social  life  of  the 
Jew.  Some  newspapers,  too,  made  a  subtle  distinction 
in  their  columns  between  "  society  news 


GRAY  DAYS  257 

of  Jewish  society".  .  .  They  did  not  label  Jewish 
society  news  differently.  But  they  managed  to  group 
Jewish  engagements,  Jewish  entertainments,  Jewish 
personals  in  a  column  apart  from  the  regu 
lar  society  news.  .  .  .  This  anomaly  of  perfect 
equality  between  Jew  and  Gentile  in  the  office,  in  busi 
ness  life,  and  the  gulf  that  divided  the  two  in  social 
life  had  interested  Witte  when  he  was  merely  an  ob 
server.  It  pained  him,  however,  when  it  entered  his 
own  personal  life.  Still  he  feared  to  make  a  break. 
He  feared  to  invite  Graves  to  his  house  lest  this  some 
how  result  in  an  estrangement.  Graves,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  too  much  of  a  man  of  the  world  to  be  im 
politic  in  such  matters. 

After  notifying  his  office,  Witte  yielded  to  an  inmost 
desire  for  the  sympathy  of  a  friend  and  telephoned  to 
Graves  informing  him  of  his  calamity.  Graves  im 
mediately  offered  his  services.  He  would  meet  Witte 
at  the  undertaker's  at  four-thirty.  Like  a  drowning 
man,  Witte  clutched  at  what  little  comfort  and  solace 
there  was  in  this  offer  of  his  friend.  .  .  . 

....  The  funeral  cortege,  besides  Witte,  consisted 
of  Graves,  a  copy  reader  of  the  Bulletin  whom  the 
latter  brought  with  him  and  a  reporter  of  the  Leader 
who  had  become  friends  with  Witte.  The  undertaker 
was  a  little  nonplussed  at  first  by  the  unusual  situation. 
There  were  not  even  ten  Jews  —  the  number  required 
for  the  reciting  of  the  prayer  over  the  dead.  .  .  . 


258  WITTE  ARRIVES 

However,  he  was  a  man  of  the  world,  and  readily  took 
in  the  situation.  Everything  moved  with  exceeding 
swiftness. 

How  much  more  quickly  his  wife  was  being  expe 
dited  from  the  land  of  the  living  than  his  mother,  and 
with  how  much  less  ceremony,  did  not  escape  Emil.  A 
wave  of  resentment  swept  over  him  —  resentment 
against  himself,  against  fate.  Had  Helen  not  been  so 
lonely  in  New  York,  had  she  had  her  people  there,  her 
funeral  would  have  taken  on  a  different  complexion. 
He  hardly  noticed  how  he  was  shoved  into  the  carriage 
and  how  fast  the  carriage  was  speeding  toward  Man 
hattan  and  away  from  the  cemetery.  ...  He  came  to 
himself  fully  and  clearly  only  when  Brooklyn  Bridge 
came  in  sight. 

At  Park  Row  the  driver  stopped.  Graves  and  the 
other  two  men  stepped  out.  Witte  followed.  He 
looked  about  for  a  moment  and  then  started. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  Graves  asked. 

"  To  the  office." 

Graves  was  about  to  remonstrate,  but  changed  his 
mind.  Perhaps  the  office  was  after  all  the  best  place 
for  Witte. 

Except  for  the  city  editor  and  two  or  three  reporters 
no  one  in  the  office  knew  that  Witte  had  lost  his  wife. 
Several  men  passed  him  with  a  nod  or  a  smile.  He 
replied  as  best  he  could.  He  was  spared  the  necessity 


GRAY  DAYS  259 

of  going  to  work  that  evening  and  he  sat  before  his 
open  desk  looking  at  the  newspapers  before  him  with 
unseeing  eyes. 

At  ten  o'clock  he  left  the  office.  He  started  for  the 
elevated  as  usual,  but  changed  his  mind.  He  felt  that 
he  would  not  have  the  courage  to  enter  his  apartment 
again,  to  sleep  through  the  night  there.  He  walked 
into  the  nearest  hotel  and  asked  for  a  room. 

He  had  hoped  that  when  he  disposed  of  his  flat  and 
settled  in  a  room  that  he  would  be  able  to  resume  work 
once  more.  He  was  anxious  to  work  now,  to  work 
hard.  It  would  be  splendid  to  become  absorbed  and  to 
forget.  .  .  .  But  he  could  not  become  absorbed.  There 
was  a  perpetual  thumping  in  his  head.  Before  his  eyes 
there  would  frequently  swim  streaks  of  blacknesss. 
He  would  never  fall  asleep  before  five  in  the  morning, 
and  his  sleep  was  fitful,  restless  — 

The  thought  of  Helen  never  left  him.  What  a 
strange  thing  life  was!  And  how  still  more  strange 
was  the  power  of  love.  This  girl  who  had  a  father 
and  mother  somewhere  far  off,  in  Russia,  had  linked 
her  life  with  his.  She  had  forgotten  every  one  and 
cleaved  to  him.  And,  as  she  lived  for  him,  she  had 
now  died  for  him.  .  .  .  That  was  becoming  a  fixed 
idea  in  his  mind  —  Helen  had  died  for  him,  through 
him.  As  in  the  case  of  his  mother  his  success  came  too 
late.  It  should  have  come  sooner  —  soon  after  their 


260  WITTE  ARRIVES 

marriage.  Then  that  horrible  deed,  that  wanton  de 
struction  of  what  should  have  been  their  first-born, 
would  never  have  occurred.  And  if  that  had  not  oc 
curred  she  would  have  been  among  the  living  now. 
Though  the  doctor  had  not  attributed  her  illness  to  that 
violent  and  unnatural  operation  which  she  had  had 
performed  in  Chicago,  Witte  felt  convinced  that  her 
illness  and  death  were  directly  caused  by  it.  And  he 
was  to  blame.  .  .  . 

His  dreams  were  of  her.  One  night  her  parents 
appeared  before  him  —  a  sad,  sorrowful  Jewish  couple. 
They  were  not  angry  with  him,  but  they  were  sad. 
They  did  not  speak  to  him,  they  merely  looked.  But 
their  look  seemed  to  say : 

"  She  was  our  only  daughter.  The  other  one 
in  Siberia  —  God  knows  when  we  shall  see  her 
again.  .  .  .  We  trusted  her  to  you.  How  did  you 
fulfil  your  trust  toward  us  ?" 

Emil  cried  out  and  awoke.  He  got  out  of  bed  and 
walked  to  the  window.  The  city  was  just  coming  to 
life.  It  was  six  o'clock.  People  were  beginning 
to  pour  out  into  the  streets.  The  day's  rush  for  the 
subway,  elevated  and  cars  was  beginning.  He  had 
slept  less  than  two  hours.  But  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  pull  the  shade  down  and  go  to  sleep  again. 

So  he  sat  there  behind  the  curtain  watching  the  city 
take  up  its  day's  work.  For  more  than  two  hours 
men  and  women  passed  under  his  window.  First  came 


GRAY  DAYS  261 

factory  workers.  They  carried  their  lunch  with  them. 
They  laughed  and  chatted  as  they  walked.  Then  came 
the  white-collared  brigade,  clerks,  salesmen,  office 
workers,  stenographers.  They  carried  no  lunch. 
Their  clothes  were  of  a  different  cut  than  those  of  the 
factory  workers,  but  they  were  often  more  shiny.  He 
wondered  how  they  lived  —  whether  they  were  happy. 

Happiness,  in  the  main,  was  the  chief  business  of 
life.  We  were  all  struggling,  fighting,  suffering,  en 
during  in  order  to  gain  happiness.  He  turned  his 
thoughts  inward.  Would  he  ever  have  been  happier 
if  he  had  chosen  any  other  occupation  than  the  one  he 
was  in  —  than  writing?  Books  —  if  he  could  only 
write  books,  he  always  thought,  he  would  be  happy. 
But  would  he  ?  And  suppose  these  books  did  not  sell  ? 
Suppose,  what  is  still  worse,  they  did  not  rise  above 
the  ordinary.  Ah,  what  a  tragedy  the  ordinary  book 
was! 

He  had  been  to  the  Astor  library  and  looked  over 
some  old  newspapers  of  twenty-five  and  forty  years 
back.  There  were  advertisements  of  books  in  them, 
and  book  reviews.  Certain  works  that  were  hailed  by 
the  critics  a  generation  back  as  epoch-making  were  un 
known  not  only  to  the  public  but  even  to  the  publishers 
of  to-day.  He  looked  for  them  high  and  low  but  could 
not  find  them.  In  the  space  of  one-third  of  a  century 
thousands  of  books  that  their  writers  relied  upon  to 
give  them  fame,  yes,  even  immortality,  had  been  swept 


262  WITTE  ARRIVES 

off  the  earth.  Time,  the  stern  critic  and  inexorable 
judge,  had  thrown  them  upon  the  scrap  heap  as  the 
"luckless  pots  marr'd  in  the  making.  .  .  ."  The 
authors  of  these  books  were  not  spared  from  oblivion. 
If  he  only  had  chosen  any  life  but  the  life  of  a  writer! 
Helen  might  be  living  and  he  might  have  been  spared 
so  much  misery.  He  would  not  have  had  to  drink  the 
cup  of  bitterness  to  the  dregs. 

The  thought  of  suicide  frequently  came  now  along 
with  the  peculiar  thumping  in  his  head.  He  wondered 
whether  he  would  have  sufficient  courage  to  embrace 
death  of  his  own  volition.  Did  it  require  a  stronger 
impulse  than  pain  or  grief  to  send  a  man  headlong  into 
eternity  ? 

With  these  thoughts  of  suicide  came  the  counter 
thought  —  his  father.  The  police  would  telegraph  his 
death  to  Spring  Water.  An  officer  there  would  bring 
the  news  to  Aaron.  He  would  try  to  break  it  to  him 
cautiously,  but  would  blurt  it  out  all  the  same.  .  .  . 
He  had  seen  such  things  done.  Or  maybe  it  would  be 
a  reporter  who  would  inform  his  father  —  the  Spring 
Water  newspaper,  too,  might  be  getting  up-to-date, 
enterprising.  He  pictured  to  himself  the  look  in  his 
father's  face  when  the  news  was  broken  to  him  of  his, 
Emil's,  death,  by  his  own  hand.  .  .  . 

He  went  to  the  office  as  usual  that  day.  Several 
times  during  the  afternoon,  however,  streaks  of  black 
ness  passed  before  his  eyes  and  seemed  to  take  longer 


GRAY  DAYS  263 

for  their  journey  than  usual.  He  went  out  to  dinner 
at  six  o'clock.  At  the  sight  of  food  he  realized  how 
sick  he  was.  A  friend  took  him  home.  A  doctor  was 
called  in.  He  would  come  again  in  the  morning. 

In  the  morning  the  physician  gave  Emil  a  thorough 
examination.  Could  Mr.  Witte  take  a  month  or  two 
off  and  go  to  a  sanitarium?  He  needed  a  rest.  It 
was  not  a  question  of  drugs.  Drugs  would  not  restore 
his  overwrought  nerves  to  normal  again. 

Witte  telephoned  to  Graves.  The  latter  came  in  a 
short  time. 

"  I  know  a  better  place  than  a  sanitarium,"  Graves 
counseled,  "your  home.  I  believe  you  told  me  once 
you  have  a  sister  and  father  out  West.  Go  to  them. 
Stay  there  two  or  three  months  —  or  longer,  if  neces 
sary.  It  is  better  than  a  sanitarium.  There  are  too 
many  people  with  aches  and  pains,  both  real  and  im 
aginary,  in  sanitariums  for  a  man  to  get  well  there." 

The  thought  of  going  home  at  first  seemed  prepos 
terous  to  Witte.  It  would  be  different  if  his  mother 
were  living,  if  they  still  had  the  sort  of  home  they 
used  to  have.  Still,  the  anticipation  of  being  once  more 
with  his  father,  with  his  family,  distilled  a  soothing 
sensation  through  his  veins.  He  made  ready  for  the 
journey.  Graves  took  him  to  the  Pennsylvania 
Station  and  helped  him  with  his  baggage. 

"  Write,"  Graves  urged  him  as  they  were  shaking 
hands  in  the  Pullman.  "Tell  me  about  the  West. 


264  WITTE  ARRIVES 

Most  of  my  people  have  lived  and  died  somewhere  be 
tween  New  York  and  Boston.  I  hope  to  see  a  little 
more  of  the  country.  I  would  like  to  go  West  myself 
some  day." 

Time  had  dealt  kindly  with  Alex  Stein.  He  was 
now  the  owner  of  one  of  the  most  prosperous  stores  in 
Spring  Water.  He  owned  a  beautiful  home  in  a  more 
exclusive  section  of  the  city  and  considerable  business 
property  in  the  heart  of  the  mercantile  district.  His 
ambition  to  become  a  leading  citizen  in  his  community 
had  been  realized.  He  was  a  fairly  prominent  figure 
in  the  city's  civic  life.  His  portly  figure  —  he  had 
taken  on  flesh  in  the  last  few  years  —  was  frequently 
seen  about  city  hall.  His  interest  in  public  affairs  and 
influence  in  certain  circles  in  the  city  had  resulted  in 
his  appointment  as  a  member  of  the  board  of  educa 
tion.  Alex  Stein  took  his  office  very  seriously,  and  his 
conscientious  work  in  behalf  of  the  public  gained  for 
him  considerable  respect  in  administration  quarters. 

He  now  strongly  resembled  those  "  city  hall  Jews  " 
in  Chicago,  who  had  been  his  envy  when  he  was  a  boy. 
He,  too,  could  do  a  man  a  favor  by  calling  a  city 
official  on  the  telephone. 

The  contempt  which  Alex  Stein  once  had  for  his 
wife's  family  had  imperceptibly  worn  off.  If  he  still 
thought  them  "  greenhorns  "  he  never  uttered  this  in 
their,  or  in  his  wife's  presence.  He  was  especially 


GRAY  DAYS  265 

kindly  disposed  toward  Emil  now.  For  Emil  was  in 
no  small  measure  responsible  for  his  brother-in-law's 
success  in  politics. 

From  the  moment  Emil's  signed  articles  began  to 
appear  in  the  Sunday  Star  Alex  Stein  knew  how  to 
take  advantage  of  it.  It  supplied  him  a  topic  for  con 
versation.  When  speaking  to  the  local  political 
satellites,  he  would  invariably  twist  the  conversation 
about  so  as  to  find  an  opportunity  to  stick  in  a  phrase 
like,  "as  my  brother-in-law  said  in  last  Sunday's 
paper."  And  if  the  politician  in  question  did  not 
happen  to  know  what  was  meant  by  this  reference, 
Stein  very  deliberately  and  very  gladly  supplied  the 
information  that  his  brother-in-law,  Emil  Witte,  was 
working  on  the  Chicago  Star  and  was  one  of  the  ablest 
of  the  younger  writers  on  civic  questions. 

When  Emil  Witte's  first  article  appeared  in  a  maga 
zine,  Alex  Stein  showed  it  to  the  advertising  manager 
of  the  Sentinel  with  considerable  pride.  The  adver 
tising  man  fully  shared  Stein's  pride  in  his  brother- 
in-law,  and  two  or  three  days  later  the  Sentinel  came 
out  with  a  column  story  telling  of  the  success  a  Spring 
Water  boy  was  winning  as  a  writer.  Well  to  the 
front  of  the  story  brief  mention  was  made  of  the  fact 
that  this  young  writer,  Emil  Witte,  was  the  brother- 
in-law  of  the  well-known  merchant,  Alex  Stein,  etc., 
etc. 

Every  article  that  came  from  the  pen  of  Witte  was 


266  WITTE  ARRIVES 

so  used  by  Stein  as  to  lend  an  air  of  intellectuality  to 
himself.  He  saw  to  it  that  people,  the  people  he  was 
interested  in,  should  not  be  surprised  at  Witte's  success 
in  the  writing  field,  but  that  instead  they  should  say, 
lt  What  wonder  is  it?  Does  not  he  come  from  an 
intellectual  family?  Take  that  brother-in-law  of  his, 
Alex  Stein  —  a  very  intellectual  man." 

Witte  went  from  the  train  straight  to  his  brother-in- 
law's  store.  Stein  was  profuse  in  his  welcome.  He 
was  genuinely  sorry  for  Emil's  misfortunes.  The 
sight  of  his  brother-in-law,  thin  and  haggard  and  still 
with  the  boyish  look  in  his  face  in  spite  of  his  thirty 
years,  aroused  his  compassion. 

"  Where  is  father?  "  Emil  asked. 

"  Father  is  on  the  farm  —  did  he  not  write  to  you 
yet?" 

Emil  recalled  that  his  father  had  written  him  —  it 
was  the  week  Helen  was  in  the  hospital  —  that  Alex 
Stein  had  bought  a  farm  and  that  he,  Aaron,  would 
devote  himself  entirely  to  overseeing  things  on  the 
place. 

After  Emil  had  spent  half  an  hour  with  Clara  and 
her  children,  Alex  came  with  a  runabout  which  he  had 
acquired  only  recently  for  the  purpose  of  driving  out 
to  his  farm  every  two  or  three  days.  The  farm  was 
.only  five  miles  from  the  city  and  the  drive  through  the 
green  fields  on  that  June  morning  acted  like  a  tonic 
upon  Witte.  The  atmosphere  was  soothing  and  in- 


GRAY  DAYS  267 

vigorating.  It  took  loads  off  his  heart,  and  his  brain 
felt  as  if  heavy  clouds  were  being  lifted  from  it. 

A  brisk  trot,  and  Stein's  farm  hove  into  view.  Emil 
discerned  his  father  standing  in  the  yard.  Aaron  was 
gazing  toward  them  intently.  He  evidently  recog 
nized  Stein's  rig  and  was  wondering  who  the  person 
sitting  beside  his  son-in-law  might  be.  As  they  came 
nearer  Aaron  recognized  Emil.  Waving  his  arms  and 
uttering  inarticulate  exclamations  he  ran  toward  them. 

Emil  had  meant  to  meet  his  father  with  stoic  resig 
nation  and  self-control.  But  the  tears  got  the  best  of 
him. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

FATHER   AND    SON 

TWICE  Aaron  came  up  to  the  door  of  the  room 
where  Emil  was  sleeping,  and  upon  hearing  his 
son's  even  breathing,  retraced  his  steps  to  the  kitchen. 
He  would  not  wake  him.  Morning  sleep  was  good  for 
children  and  to  him  Emil  was  a  child  once  more,  and 
a  sick  child  at  that. 

He  changed  the  position  of  the  coffee-pot  on  the 
stove  so  as  to  prevent  its  further  boiling  and  went  out 
into  the  yard.  He  was  trying  to  think  of  some  point  of 
interest  to  show  Emil  about  the  farm  that  day.  They 
had  seen  a  good  deal  of  the  place  in  the  week  Emil 
had  been  back  from  New  York.  But  Aaron  must  find 
something  to  keep  up  his  son's  interest  and  to  keep 
his  thoughts  from  reverting  to  himself,  to  the  past.  .  .  . 

Aaron  had  his  own  ideas  about  curing  those  sick 
nesses  that  are  not  of  the  body,  but  of  the  soul. 

When  Clara,  with  her  husband  and  her  father,  was 
alone  the  evening  after  Emil  came,  she  said  she  was 
convinced  that  her  brother  was  very  sick.  He  looked 
ill  and  broken,  physically  and  mentally.  Alex  Stein 
suggested  that  they  call  in  the  best  doctor  in  Spring 
Water  and  spare  no  expense.  Clara  began  making 

268 


FATHER  AND  SON  269 

plans  for  taking  care  of  him.  He  would  have  to  get 
very  good  care. 

Aaron,  however,  waved  aside  all  talk  of  calling  a 
doctor. 

"  Don't  put  yourself  out/'  he  said  to  his  daughter. 
"  You  have  enough  to  do  taking  care  of  the  children. 
I'll  look  after  Emil  myself.  I'll  bring  him  around. 
Just  leave  him  to  me." 

Clara  did  not  leave  them  alone  entirely.  She  ran 
out  to  the  farm  every  few  days  to  see  how  her  father 
was  looking  after  Emil,  whether  he  was  not  starving 
the  boy.  .  .  .  But  there  was  no  danger  of  that.  Aaron 
had  developed  into  an  excellent  cook  and  manager. 
As  for  the  care  he  was  giving  Emil,  no  doctor  could 
advise  better  care. 

When  Aaron  came  up  to  Emil's  door  for  the  third 
time  the  latter  was  dressing. 

The  fence  at  the  far  end  of  the  two  hundred  acre 
tract  was  broken,  he  informed  his  son.  After  break 
fast  they  would  go  down  to  fix  it.  Alex  Stein  had  a 
man  running  the  place  for  him  and  there  was  nothing 
for  Aaron  to  do  there.  But  since  Emil  had  come,  the 
old  man  was  constantly  looking  for  a  chance  to  tinker 
about  the  place.  It  was  so  diverting,  and  the  exer 
cise  in  trotting  up  and  down  the  farm  was  good  for 
Emil.  .  .  . 

So,  as  soon  as  they  were  through  breakfasting, 
Aaron  took  a  hammer  and  some  nails  and  started  off 


270  WITTE  ARRIVES 

on  a  slow  circuitous  walk  toward  that  end  of  the  field 
where  the  fence  was  broken.  They  passed  a  little 
ravine  where  cattle  were  grazing.  Then  they  came  to  a 
spring.  Here  they  drank  and  sat  in  the  shade  and 
chatted  for  the  better  part  of  an  hour. 

Centuries  of  life  in  the  ghettos  of  the  old  world  have 
extinguished  in  the  Jew  all  love  for  nature.  Emil  was 
no  exception.  He  could  dissect  human  emotions. 
His  heart  and  brain  were  attuned  like  a  violin  to  human 
suffering,  to  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  his  fellows.  But 
nature  had  never  interested  him  much.  The  animal 
and  plant  worlds  were  pretty  much  of  a  sealed  book  to 
him.  He  could  not  call  more  than  two  or  three  flowers 
by  their  names.  Now  this  book  was  opening  itself 
before  his  eyes.  He  was  becoming  interested  in  things 
he  had  formerly  never  noticed.  He  could  sit  for  hours 
and  watch  the  manceuvers  of  a  squirrel.  A  worm 
crawling  slowly  along  the  earth  would  arouse  his  in 
terest.  He  would  lie  on  his  back,  screen  his  eyes  with 
his  hand,  and  watch  the  myriads  of  little  insects  and 
creatures  floating  in  the  bluish  haze  about  him. 

In  such  moments  the  memory  of  the  city,  of  the 
struggling,  seething  life  there,  evaporated,  became 
dreamlike.  The  city  seemed  to  lose  all  sense  of  reality. 
His  father  was  reading  in  the  papers  —  Emil  was  not 
reading  anything  —  that  men  were  dying  from  heat  in 
Chicago  and  New  York  daily.  And  while  he  listened 
to  these  items  they  did  not  seem  to  penetrate  his  mind. 


FATHER  AND  SON  271 

He  could  hardly  understand  that.  Even  his  father's 
occasional  remark  about  the  sultriness  of  the  weather 
found  no  response  within  him.  He  welcomed  the  sun. 
The  blazing  rays  were  penetrating  and  melting  and 
healing  his  frozen  heart.  The  sunshine  and  warmth 
seemed  to  ease  the  thumping  in  his  head.  .  .  . 

Two  or  three  times  a  week  Emil  would  spend  after 
noons  with  his  sister.  Either  Clara  came  out  to  see 
him,  or  else  he  would  drive  into  town.  Alex  Stein 
welcomed  these  visits  of  Emil.  No  matter  how  busy 
he  might  be  he  would  put  aside  his  books  and  figures 
and  chat  with  his  brother-in-law. 

Emil  noticed  the  change  that  had  come  over  Stein. 
He  had  softened  a  great  deal  since  the  days  when  he 
first  entered  their  household.  Business  success  to 
gether  with  his  growing  prestige  in  the  community 
had  made  Stein  more  tolerant  of  people.  He  had  a 
name  among  his  employees  as  a  considerate  employer. 

Aaron's  attitude  toward  his  son-in-law,  too,  had 
changed.  If  Alex  Stein  still  was  unable  to  follow  his 
Talmudic  discussions,  his  son-in-law  was  now  practic 
ing  many  of  the  things  the  rabbis  preached  and  ex 
horted.  He  was  contributing  liberally  to  the  poor. 
He  was  a  director  of  the  Spring  Water  charity  society. 
He  not  only  gave  money  but  time  to  the  management 
of  the  society's  affairs.  Whenever  a  call  came  to  aid 
the  distressed,  no  matter  of  what  race  or  what  country, 


272  WITTE  ARRIVES 

Alex  Stein  was  always  at  the  head  of  the  list  of  con 
tributors.  Just  as  in  his  younger  days  he  had  followed 
eagerly  the  news  of  the  sporting  world,  so  he  now  read 
religiously  a  journal  which  was  disseminating  ideas  of 
welfare  and  humanity. 

But  while  he  changed  his  methods  of  dealing  with 
people  considerably,  Alex  Stein  did  not  let  up  a  whit. 
He  was  working  harder  than  ever,  in  fact,  for  he  was 
now  projecting  big  undertakings.  He  had  the  am 
bition  to  see  an  up-to-date  department  store  in  Spring 
Water,  with  himself,  of  course,  as  the  owner  of  it.  It 
was  with  this  end  in  view  that  he  had  been  amassing 
property  in  the  business  section.  What  stood  in  the 
way  of  the  execution  of  the  project  was  the  corner  lot 
he  needed,  which  was  owned  by  an  old  settler  in  the 
community,  the  druggist,  Holstman.  Holstman  was 
loath  to  part  with  the  property,  and  Alex  Stein  would 
not  resort  to  methods  that  would  drive  the  old  man 
close  to  the  wall.  It  would  not  be  in  keeping  for  Stein 
as  a  leading  citizen,  and  a  member  of  the  board  of  edu 
cation,  to  resort  even  to  a  legitimate  trick  to  force  the 
old  man  to  sell  out  to  him.  So  he  waited  patiently 
and  let  the  project  of  building  a  department  store  ac 
cumulate  momentum,  so  that  once  started  it  would  pro 
ceed  rapidly. 

The  afternoons  Emil  spent  in  the  city  were  beginning 
to  give  him  great  pleasure.  He  would  stay  for  supper 
at  Clara's  house.  Emil  would  play  with  his  little 


FATHER  AND  SON  273 

nephews.     A  healthy,  hearty  laugh  was  coming  back 
to  him.  .  .  . 

Once  when  Emil  and  his  father  drove  home,  the 
horse  started  up  at  a  gallop.  Emil,  who  held  the  reins, 
was  thrilled  by  it  like  a  boy.  He  remarked  this  to  his 
father,  and  the  latter  said : 

"  Yes,  you  never  really  had  a  childhood,  like  Amer 
ican  children  have.  In  the  ghetto  children  not  only 
grow  old  —  they  are  born  old.  And  ever  since  you 
came  to  this  country  it  has  always  been  work  and 
trouble." 

Emil  ran  over  in  his  mind  his  twenty  years  in 
America  — 

"  Yes,  work  and  trouble,"  he  repeated  thoughtfully. 

Aaron  was  sorry  he  had  ventured  into  the  field  of 
reminiscences.  Both  the  subject  he  had  brought  up 
and  the  manner  in  which  he  had  spoken  about  it  had 
drawn  down  a  sudden  gloom  upon  Emil.  They  rode 
in  silence  the  rest  of  the  way.  .  .  . 

Now  that  Emil  was  recovering  his  mental  and  physi 
cal  poise  he  was  beginning  to  ply  his  father  with  ques 
tions.  Aaron  talked  at  first  hesitatingly,  then,  seeing 
that  Emil  was  strong  enough  to  delve  into  the  past, 
he  talked  gladly  about  the  many  things  in  their  own 
lives,  things  either  vaguely  or  totally  unknown  to  Emil. 
The  great  world  with  its  problems  and  sorrows,  which 
had  occupied  Emil  all  the  years  he  was  working  on 
newspapers,  now  seemed  to  fade  from  his  memory,  and 


274  WITTE  ARRIVES 

the  little  world  of  the  Witte  households,  of  immediate 
friends  and  relatives,  took  the  center  of  the  stage  for 
the  time  being. 

His  father  loved  to  dwell  on  the  past,  especially  on 
those  incidents  in  it  in  which  Emil's  mother  had 
figured.  Aaron  would  never  grow  tired  of  speaking 
of  his  dead  wife.  .  .  . 

Often  when  his  father  talked  to  him  with  such  ten 
derness  of  his  mother,  a  pain  would  come  over  Emil 
—  a  pain  for  Helen.  Would  that  he,  too,  had  a  child 
to  whom  he  could  in  after  days  speak  of  her.  But  it 
was  not  given  to  her  to  have  a  child.  It  was  not 
given  to  Helen  to  preserve  her  image  for  him  in  a  living 
part  of  herself.  All  he  had  of  her  was  the  image  that 
had  chiseled  itself  into  his  brain.  .  .  . 

On  nights  when  he  thought  of  this  he  would  toss  on 
his  bed  for  hours,  or  would  raise  the  window  and  look 
long  at  the  stars  and  listen  to  the  rustling  leaves  in  the 
trees.  .  .  . 

The  first  week  in  September  brought  disagreeable 
weather.  A  cold  rain  with  a  sharp  wind  heralded  the 
first  breath  of  autumn.  All  through  the  night  the  trees 
groaned  under  the  onslaught  of  the  raging  elements. 
Emil  lay  awake  a  good  part  of  the  night.  It  was  a 
unique  sensation  to  be  awake  and  listening  to  moan- 
ings  of  the  storm  at  night  —  in  the  country. 

In  the  morning  when  he  came  to  breakfast  he  found 


FATHER  AND  SON  275 

the  kitchen  stove  going.  It  was  exuding  a  pleasant 
warmth.  The  smell  of  burning  pine  saturated  the 
room.  He  felt  a  soothing  sensation  penetrate  his  very 
bones.  For  years  he  had  not  sat  in  front  of  a  burning 
stove.  This  sensation  gave  him  immense  pleasure. 

The  rain  kept  up  throughout  the  forenoon  and  the 
leaden  clouds  gave  no  promise  of  a  let-up.  After 
dinner  Aaron  joined  his  son  in  the  kitchen.  He  sat 
and  smoked  a  pipe  —  he  smoked  more  and  oftener 
since  the  death  of  his  wife.  Emil  was  wading  through 
a  batch  of  magazines  he  had  not  looked  at  all  summer. 

He  found  names  in  these  magazines  of  writers  he 
knew,  or  had  heard  of.  He  read  one  short  story  and 
then  another.  Then  he  paused  and  thought.  .  .  . 
Neither  of  the  stories  satisfied  him  completely.  Life 
was  deeper,  ever  so  much  deeper  than  the  writers  of 
these  stories  painted  it.  ...  The  "  love  pangs  "  in  the 
stories  were  often  a  pretense  —  the  sorrow  in  them  not 
deep,  not  genuine.  .  .  .  Have  men  and  women  for 
gotten  how  to  love  ?  Has  suffering  become  so  easy  to 
endure,  so  superficial?  Or  was  it  the  fault  of  the 
writers  ?  Apparently  the  writers  were  not  "  eating 
their  bread  with  tears  "  and  were  not  spending  their 
"nights  a-sorrowing ": — Goethe's  formula  for  good 
writing. 

He  thought  of  his  own  stories,  the  unprinted,  the 
semi-written  children  of  his  brain.  Most  of  these 
half-written  stories  were  lying  in  his  trunk.  A  longing 


276  WITTE  ARRIVES 

for  them  came  over  him.  He  left  the  room  and  soon 
returned  with  a  bundle  of  papers.  He  looked  ruefully 
at  the  fragments  of  writing  on  which  he  had  spent  so 
many  weary  and  ecstatic  hours  —  hours  he  had  taken 
from  Helen.  He  came  to  a  score  or  more  of  scribbled 
pages.  It  was  the  book,  the  book  he  had  begun  early 
in  his  newspaper  career,  the  book  that  was  to  paint  life 
deep  and  strong. 

He  read  the  fragmentary  manuscript  page  by  page. 
The  pictures  the  pages  presented  were  fresh  and  thrill 
ing,  though  the  writing  was  bad  in  spots.  He  struck 
out  a  few  words  here,  added  a  sentence  there. 

It  occurred  to  him  that  it  would  be  worth  while  re 
writing  these  pages.  It  was  worth  while  preserving 
them.  Some  day  they  would  form  the  nucleus,  the  be 
ginning  of  a  book. 

His  father  was  out  of  the  room  by  this  time.  It 
was  but  a  step  into  his  bedroom  to  get  the  machine. 
He  adjusted  the  typewriter  on  the  kitchen  table.  The 
keys  were  a  trifle  stiff,  but  that  passed  away  after  a 
few  moments.  A  wave  of  happiness  came  over  him  as 
the  familiar  clicking  of  the  keys  began  to  reverberate 
through  the  room  — 

Twice  Aaron  Witte  hovered  past  the  kitchen  door, 
attracted  there  by  the  strange  noise  the  machine  was 
making,  and  twice  he  receded  on  tiptoe  for  fear  that 
his  presence  might  disturb  his  son.  Once  he  caught 
the  tenseness  in  Emil's  face  as  his  eyes  shifted  from  the 


FATHER  AND  SON  277 

page  which  lay  before  him  on  the  table  to  the  page 
which  was  growing  out  of  his  typewriter  inch  by  inch, 
and  a  strange  happiness  akin  to  humiliation  overcame 
him.  Aaron  had  never  seen  Emil  work  on  a  type 
writer,  and  the  quickness  and  suppleness  with  which 
his  brain  and  hands  worked  together  filled  the  old  man 
with  a  strange  pride  in  his  boy  —  his  favorite  son  upon 
whom  he  lavished  more  affection  and  more  attention 
than  on  all  his  children.  If  Masha  had  only  lived! 
If  she  could  have  been  brought  to  life  and  but  for  a 
single  instant  be  put  there  before  the  door  to  watch 
Emirs  flushed  face  and  fine  forehead  as  the  thoughts 
were  flashing  from  it  on  paper! 

Through  the  night  the  book  had  shaped  itself  defin 
itely  in  his  mind.  He  was  more  than  ever  convinced 
now  that  his  first  choice  of  ideas  and  situations  was  a 
happy  one.  It  still  rained  in  the  morning.  In  the 
kitchen  the  stove  was  again  going,  the  burning  pine 
acting  like  a  tonic  on  his  nerves.  After  breakfast  he 
again  sat  down  to  the  typewriter.  His  father  had 
sought  out  a  special  table  for  him  and  had  had  the 
legs  sawed  off  so  as  to  make  it  the  right  height.  By 
eleven  o'clock  the  ten  pages  he  had  written  the  previous 
afternoon  were  increased  to  again  as  many.  At  dinner 
he  told  his  father  that  he  could  feel  his  health  come 
back  by  leaps  and  bounds.  They  laughed  and  ate 
heartily.  .  .  . 

These  mornings  at  the  typewriter  were  now  a  stand- 


278  WITTE  ARRIVES 

ing  feature  with  Emil.  His  mind  was  permeated  with 
ideas  and  pictures.  Episodes  and  chapters  were 
crowding  one  another  in  his  brain  and  there  was  but 
one  way  to  relieve  this  strain  on  his  nerves  —  to  put 
these  thoughts  and  pictures  and  episodes  on  paper. 
So  he  wrote  morning  after  morning.  Aaron  insisted 
that  he  refrain  from  working  afternoons  —  he  was 
there  to  rest,  to  recover  his  health. 

When  the  first  snow  fell,  a  few  days  before  Thanks 
giving,  Witte  took  an  inventory  of  his  book.  He 
found  that  it  was  more  than  two-thirds  done.  ...  It 
was  then  he  permitted  himself  to  surprise  Graves, 
with  whom  he  was  corresponding  with  fair  regularity, 
with  the  news  that  he  was  working  on  a  story. 
Graves'  reply  was  immediate  and  enthusiastic.  He 
was  hoping  that  Emil  would  be  along  soon.  He  ought 
to  come  back  to  New  York  as  soon  as  his  health  per 
mitted. 

Emil  had  completely  recovered  his  health.  Many 
of  the  aches  and  pains  of  a  few  months  back  were  now 
an  indistinct  memory.  He  wondered  at  times  how  a 
person  could  so  easily  forget  the  sensations  of  pain 
and  discomfort  which  so  shortly  before  had  held  him 
in  their  grip.  But  the  renewed  strength  of  youth  ap 
parently  would  not  stand  for  such  trifling  things  as 
disease  memories. 

A  longing  for  the  city,  for  the  office  atmosphere,  a 
homesickness  for  the  printed  word,  now  frequently 


FATHER  AND  SON  279 

overtook  him.  And  this  longing  became  stronger  as 
the  book  neared  completion.  The  first  week  in  Jan 
uary  it  was  finished. 

Aaron  reconciled  himself  to  the  thought  of  his  son's 
going  back  to  New  York.  He  suggested,  however, 
that  Emil  stay  with  him  till  spring.  Hitherto  Aaron 
Witte  had  nursed  his  son,  he  now  wanted  two  months 
to  look  at  him,  to  enjoy  his  presence.  Who  could 
foretell  when  they  would  see  each  other  again? 

The  last  week  in  March  Witte  received  a  telegram 
from  Graves.  Graves  had  been  called  by  the  Leader 
as  night  editor.  There  was  to  be  a  complete  reorgan 
ization  of  the  staff.  Van  Bever,  the  managing  editor, 
was  looking  for  a  rewrite  man.  He  could  fix  it  for 
Witte  to  get  the  job.  Did  he  want  it?  He  had  a 
week's  time  to  get  there.  Witte  wired  an  acceptance 
that  same  day. 

A  family  dinner  was  arranged  by  Clara  for  Friday 
evening.  Harry  and  his  wife  and  children  came. 
Alex  Stein  was  in  the  best  of  spirits.  The  fact  that 
Emil  was  called  by  a  New  York  editor  pleased  him 
greatly.  He  took  it  as  a  personal  compliment  and  was 
making  much  of  it  —  as  if  he  had  been  responsible  for 
it.  The  fact  that  he  had  at  one  time  urged  Emil 
angrily  to  take  up  law  or  any  other  profession  instead 
of  "  the  fool  course  "  which  led  him  into  writing,  was 
conveniently  forgotten  by  Stein. 

Emil  was  up  early  the  next  morning.     He  was  to 


28o  WITTE  ARRIVES 

leave  at  ten  o'clock.  Alex  Stein  went  down  to  the 
store  and  said  he  would  be  back  in  time  to  take  Emil 
to  the  train.  Aaron  Witte  was  busying  himself  about 
Emil's  luggage.  Emil  and  Clara  remained  alone  in 
the  house. 

His  sister  came  up  close  to  him  and  began  speaking 
about  his  journey  and  New  York.  He  must  take  good 
care  of  himself  there.  He  must  guard  his  health  and 
he  must  write  to  her  —  to  her  especially  —  and  often. 
She  broke  down  and  wept.  Emil  caressed  her  arm 
and  her  shoulder  and  urged  her  to  calm  herself.  What 
was  there  to  weep  about  ?  He  was  going  to  New  York 
in  a  far  better  state  than  when  he  came.  Everything 
was  all  right.  Father  was  well  and  contented  on  the 
farm  —  not  a  bad  old  age  at  that.  ...  He  would,  of 
course,  come  to  visit  them  at  the  first  opportunity. 

"  Do  come/'  Clara  emitted  between  sobs.  "  Come 
next  summer  if  you  can  —  I  am  so  lonely." 

And  then  she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  moaned 
and  spoke  in  fragments: 

"  Alex  —  he  is  good  to  me.  But  —  he  is  not  like 
one  of  us —  He  is  always  chinking  of  business  — 
money  —  He  is  not  like  you  —  like  father.  He  does 
not  confide  in  me  as  father  did  in  mother  —  He  does 
not  have  time  for  his  family  — " 

Emil  looked  at  his  sister,  who  was  drying  her  eyes, 
and  was  astounded  to  find  how  closely  she  resembled 
his  mother  —  the  mother  he  had  known  as  a  little  child. 


FATHER  AND  SON  281 

He  had  never  suspected  any  rift  between  Clara  and  her 
husband.  .  .  .  He  was  profoundly  disturbed  by  his 
sister's  tears.  ...  He  tried  to  console  her. 

He  absolved  Alex  Stein  from  blame  for  his  money 
madness.  It  was  not  his  fault,  this  never-ceasing 
struggle  for  gold  and  more  gold.  It  was  the  cardinal 
sin  of  American  life.  Money  madness  was  the  curse 
of  the  age,  the  blot  on  our  civilization.  Alex  Stein  was 
merely  falling  in  line  with  the  ideals,  or  lack  of  ideals, 
of  the  times. 

Emil  talked  at  length  and  Clara  hung  on  his  every 
word.  As  she  looked  into  her  brother's  resigned  eyes, 
she  was  struck  by  the  close  resemblance  Emil  was  be 
ginning  to  bear  to  their  father.  If  he  had  a  beard 
Emil  would  look  just  as  her  father  had  looked  when 
she  was  a  little  girl.  And  he  talked  like  her  father  — 
never  harshly,  always  mitigatingly,  always  subduedly. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE   BOOK    OF   LIFE 

THERE  are  streets  in  Brooklyn  where  the  quiet  is 
so  intense  that  the  very  stillness  fairly  threatens 
to  become  audible  at  times.  Everything  in  these 
streets  moves  noiselessly.  The  maid  who  takes  a  child 
for  an  outing  walks  as  if  somebody  was  lying  at  the 
point  of  death  and  a  laugh  or  exclamation  might  do 
irretrievable  hurt.  Carriages  and  limousines  glide 
through  the  streets  at  certain  hours  of  the  day,  but 
they,  too,  glide  noiselessly.  The  heavily  curtained 
windows  of  the  residences  give  no  sign  of  the  life  that 
is  going  on  within. 

The  spacious  and  imposing  residences  in  these  streets 
are  occupied  mostly  by  lawyers,  bankers,  brokers,  and 
higher  class  merchants  who  have  their  offices  or  busi 
ness  places  in  Manhattan.  In  the  morning  between 
eight-thirty  and  nine-thirty  o'clock  these  men  are 
seen  leaving  their  homes  in  carriages  or  automobiles. 
At  five  in  the  afternoon  they  return.  As  their  going 
so  their  coming  is  soft  and  quiet.  The  walk  and  de 
meanor  of  the  men  is  such  as  to  appear  almost  studied 
in  its  fear  of  noise.  In  the  evening  alone  one  occasion 
ally  hears  laughter  in  these  streets,  as  when  a  theater 
party  starts  out  or  else  returns  home. 

282 


THE  BOOK  OF  LIFE  283 

The  men  and  women  who  live  in  these  streets  are 
without  exception  of  the  "  old  families,"  families  with 
New  England  traditions,  families  that  belong  to  the 
American  aristocracy  of  culture.  They  are  not  of  the 
class  of  money  kings.  Rather  are  they  the  intellectual 
servants  of  these  money  kings  and  of  corporations. 
Immigrants  invariably  are  fascinated  by  these  faces, 
for  there  is  kindliness  in  them  and  sincere  interest  as 
well  as  simplicity.  Even  the  aloofness  of  some  of 
these  families  has  not  the  inborn  contempt  for  the 
people  one  finds  in  the  titled  nobility  of  Europe,  or  the 
insolence  of  the  new  rich.  Emerson  and  Thoreau  are 
still  the  penates,  the  family  gods,  in  these  homes. 

One  of  these  quiet  and  exclusive  residences  the 
Graves'  family  occupied.  The  late  William  Parton 
Graves  was  a  famous  lawyer  and  scholar.  There  were 
several  volumes  of  his  essays  and  addresses  in  the 
library.  In  spite,  however,  of  both  his  literary  inclin 
ations,  which  resulted  in  his  taking  much  time  from 
business  and  limiting  his  law  practice  to  high-grade 
work  only,  and  of  his  untimely  death,  he  left  his  fam 
ily  fairly  well  provided  for.  Mrs.  Graves  owned  the 
residence  and  had  the  income  from  a  large  farm  in 
Vermont.  There  was  also  some  suburban  property 
which  was  rapidly  rising  in  value. 

Toward  this  house  George  Graves  and  Emil  Witte 
were  now  coming.  It  was  the  first  invitation  the 
editor  had  extended  to  Witte  to  spend  the  evening  with 


284  WITTE  ARRIVES 

him,  his  mother  and  sister,  and  was  made  in  such  a 
sincere  manner  that  Witte  at  once  accepted  it. 

Since  Witte's  arrival  from  Spring  Water,  some  six 
weeks  before,  he  and  Graves  had  been  drawn  together 
more  closely,  first  by  their  office  work  —  Emil  Witte 
was  now  doing  considerable  work  under  the  immediate 
supervision  of  Graves  —  and  secondly  by  Witte's 
book. 

Graves  was  very  much  interested  in  this  book. 
They  talked  about  it  frequently.  He  urged  Witte  to 
whip  the  manuscript  into  presentable  shape  and  submit 
it  to  an  editor  —  there  was  no  use  losing  time.  Witte 
was  too  busy  on  the  Leader,  however,  to  give  the  manu 
script  the  necessary  time  for  revision. 

"  I  have  described  your  book,  that  is,  as  much  as  I 
know  about  it,  to  my  sister,"  Graves  said  to  Witte. 
"  She  thinks  it  is  a  timely  work,  and  that  you  ought  to 
take  it  to  a  publisher  at  once." 

Graves  had  great  respect  for  his  sister's  opinion. 
Barbara  Graves  knew  the  publishing  business  well  in 
deed.  Before  becoming  secretary  to  the  editor  of  the 
Advance  she  had  worked  for  the  Seymour  and 
Brothers  Publishing  Company  for  some  years. 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Graves  suggested  urgently 
that  Witte  spend  an  evening  with  them.  Together 
they  could  talk  over  his  book  and  perhaps  a  plan  would 
suggest  itself  for  its  marketing. 

So  Witte  found  himself  in  the  Graves'  sitting-room, 


THE  BOOK  OF  LIFE  285 

answering  the  greetings  of  Mrs.  Graves,  a  woman  in 
the  sixties,  who  concerned  herself  greatly  about  making 
her  guest  comfortable  and  putting  him  at  ease.  It  was 
the  first  time  in  the  period  of  nearly  three  years  of  their 
acquaintance  that  Witte  found  himself  talking  to  Miss 
Graves  on  subjects  other  than  business. 

They  talked  about  the  West.  She  had  known  it  only 
cursorily,  having  taken  a  trip  to  the  Pacific  Coast. 

"  That,"  said  Miss  Graves,  "  is  really  no  way  of 
seeing  one's  country.  You  cannot  see  far  from  an 
observation  platform." 

Her  brother  turned  the  conversation  to  the  book. 
Witte  told  her  how  he  had  conceived  the  idea  for  the 
story  years  previously  as  a  reporter  for  a  Chicago 
paper,  and  how  he  had  carried  it  into  execution  in  those 
autumn  days  on  the  farm,  while  the  burning  stove  was 
diffusing  the  odor  of  pine  through  the  farmhouse  and 
his  brain. 

"  Could  I  see  it?  "  Miss  Graves  asked. 

"  Yes,  gladly." 

He  gave  the  manuscript  to  Graves  the  following 
evening  to  take  home  with  him. 

Three  days  later  Witte  received  a  note  from  Miss 
Graves  asking  his  permission  to  show  the  manuscript 
to  a  friend  of  hers,  a  Miss  Gardiner,  a  reader  for  a 
publishing  house. 

He  wrote  back  a  note  of  appreciation  for  the  interest 
which  Miss  Graves  was  taking  in  his  manuscript  and 


286  WITTE  ARRIVES 

jestingly  added  that  she  might  consider  herself  a 
trustee  of  his  work  and  could  dispose  of  it  any  way 
she  saw  fit. 

"  I  have  accepted  the  trusteeship/'  she  wrote  in  the 
same  spirit,  "and  after  having  made  a  few  trifling 
editorial  changes  and  corrections,  I  have  turned  the 
manuscript  over  into  very  trustworthy  hands,  where  it 
is  now  being  rewritten.  It  needed  that  badly." 

Both  Graves  and  his  sister  apparently  forgot  the 
manuscript  for  the  next  two  weeks.  Graves  met  Witte 
every  night  at  work  as  usual,  but  there  was  no  mention 
of  the  book.  At  the  end  of  two  weeks  there  came  a 
letter  signed  by  a  Mr.  Alden,  the  president  of  the  Sey 
mour  and  Brothers  Publishing  Company.  Witte  was 
informed  that  his  book  was  accepted  and  was  asked 
to  come  in  at  the  first  opportunity  to  talk  over  certain 
changes  that  were  desirable  in  the  story. 

Formal  as  was  the  note  of  acceptance  which  Mr. 
Alden  had  written,  the  reception  he  gave  Witte  was  the 
very  antithesis. 

"  You  have  here  a  splendid  book,"  said  Alden.  "  It 
is  refreshing.  I  was  delighted  to  read  it." 

The  publisher  was  a  man  past  fifty,  gray-haired, 
smooth-shaven.  He  gave  one  the  impression  that  he 
was  part  and  parcel  of  an  older  generation.  Witte 
learned  in  the  next  few  moments,  however,  that  this 
man  who  spoke  to  him  in  almost  clerical  manner,  as 
the  parson  in  a  small  community  speaks  to  one  of  his 


THE  BOOK  OF  LIFE  287 

parishioners,  was  very  up-to-date  in  his  knowledge  of 
conditions,  far  more  up-to-date,  in  fact,  than  many  a 
brisk  and  brittle  younger  man. 

"  I  have  been  wishing  for  some  time  for  such  a 
book,"  Alden  continued.  "  The  technique  of  the  thing 
is  weak  in  places,  but  that  will  be  pulled  up  in  the 
editing.  The  main  thing  is  the  subject  matter,  the  at 
mosphere.  That  is  there  in  inimitable  manner. 

"  I  looked  over  the  manuscript  again  after  I  wrote 
to  you/'  he  went  on  after  a  pause,  "  and  I  am  inclined 
to  make  no  changes  in  the  story.  I  believe  I  shall  let 
the  situations  stand  just  the  way  you  have  them. 
Your  judgment  and  feeling  in  the  book  is  right.  You 
have  a  work  here  —  a  work  — " 

He  broke  off,  apparently  not  sure  how  to  phrase  his 
criticism  or  praise  of  the  book.  He  continued : 

"Am  I  making  myself  clear?  You  have  a  story 
here  that  is  different  from  anything  that  has  been 
written  in  years.  There  is  heart  in  it.  There  is  some 
thing  else  in  this  book  of  yours.  Something  for  which 
we  have  no  word  in  English,  but  which  the  Germans 
call  '  iiberlebtes  '  —  things  one  has  lived  through,  suf 
ferings  one  has  experienced  in  one's  own  soul  — " 

Alden  searched  with  his  gray  eyes  the  face  of  the 
young  man  before  him  with  a  look  of  genuine  sym 
pathy,  and  said : 

"  You  must  have  gone  through  a  lot  —  you  must 
have  suffered  a  lot  to  be  able  to  write  such  a  book. 


288  WITTE  ARRIVES 

Such  a  work  as  yours  is  not  merely  thought  out  —  it 
is  lived.  There  is  a  note  of  sincerity  in  it  that  is  too 
often  a  stranger  to  American  literature.  It  is  the  book 
of  life.  It  is  epic  in  its  depth  of  grandeur.  It  is  a  dis 
tinct  contribution  to  American  letters." 

Mr.  Alden  made  Witte  sketch  his  life  for  him.  At 
the  mention  of  Manning,  the  publisher  pricked  up  his 
ears.  He  had  known  Manning  years  ago  in  Boston. 
Witte  described  to  him  just  what  Manning's  purpose 
was  in  hiring  him  on  the  Chicago  Star,  the  sort  of 
writing  he  wanted  of  him. 

Ten  days  later  Witte  received  another  note  from  the 
publisher  to  come  and  see  him. 

"  I  want  you  to  go  to  work  for  us,"  Alden  said 
bluntly.  He  then  proceeded  to  explain. 

The  Seymour  and  Brothers  publishing  house,  as 
Witte  knew,  was  publishing  not  only  books  but  a  num 
ber  of  magazines,  among  them  the  Age,  a  well-known 
weekly. 

"  I  think,"  said  Alden,  "  that  we  can  do  considerable 
for  you  and  that  you  can  do  considerable  for  the  Age. 
We  have  been  looking  around  for  a  likely  man  to  take 
on  our  staff  for  some  time.  I  think  you  are  the  man 
we  want. 

"  We  want  you  to  write  editorials  for  the  Age.  We 
want  you  to  tell  us  of  America's  newest  problems.  I 
agree  perfectly  with  the  sentiments  of  your  book  that, 
sifted  down  to  fundamentals,  the  greatest  problem 


THE  BOOK  OF  LIFE  289 

for  this  country  to  solve  is  the  bread  and  contentment 
accent  the  '  contentment ' —  problem,  and  that  Gold 
smith's  sentiment  to  the  effect  that  ill  fares  the  land 
where  wealth  accumulates  and  men  decay  is  not  senti 
mentality,  but  truth,  practical  statesmanship.  In  your 
story  you  have  brought  out  the  dignity,  the  poetry,  and 
the  despair  of  the  job.  But  you  have  brought  them 
out  only  as  an  artist  —  which  was  right  considering  the 
fact  that  you  were  writing  fiction.  We  want  you  to 
bring  out  these  questions  as  a  publicist,  editorially, 
emphatically,  in  the  Age  every  week.  I  agree  fully 
with  your  sentiment  that  there  is  no  reason  why  men 
who  want  work  should  not  find  it.  There  is  no  reason 
why  work  should  be  made  hateful  by  mismanagement, 
by  improper  surroundings,  by  indifferent  or  brutal 
treatment  of  the  worker.  I  agree  with  you  that  there 
is  no  reason  why  culture  and  refinement  should  be  the 
heritage  of  the  few.  It  belongs  to  all  the  people. 
There  should  be  no  room  for  caste  and  class  lines  in  a 
democracy,  in  America." 

Witte,  overwhelmed  by  the  offer,  listened  in  silence. 
He  had  never  thought  of  himself  in  the  light  of  an 
editorial  writer.  He  had  always  associated  elderly 
men  with  work  of  that  sort.  He  admitted  it  frankly 
to  Mr.  Alden.  The  latter  laughed. 

"That  is  the  accepted  view,"  said  the  publisher. 
"  But  it  is  a  mistaken  view.  It  is  the  young,  not  neces 
sarily  in  years  but  in  mind,  in  spirit,  who  shape  the 


2QO  WITTE  ARRIVES 

course  of  civilization,  and  the  young  should  be  allowed 
to  say  just  what  the  course  should  be.  The  young 
writer  has  a  distinct  viewpoint  which  the  older  man 
often  loses.  He  has  enthusiasm.  We  should  not  wait 
until  he  has  lost  these  qualities  to  let  him  write  editor 
ials. 

"  The  editorial,"  Alden  went  on  after  some  moments, 
"  is  the  poem  of  to-day.  In  a  previous  century  the 
best  political  and  social  writing  was  done  in  poetry. 
To-day  it  is  done  in  editorials.  We  must  have  more 
men  of  force  and  of  vision  —  and  of  youth  —  speaking 
through  our  editorial  columns." 

Witte  hurried  to  the  office  of  the  Leader.  On  his 
desk  lay  a  number  of  clippings  with  instructions  from 
the  city  editor  as  to  what  length  they  should  be  re 
written.  He  was  in  the  midst  of  one  of  these  stories 
when  Graves  rushed  up  to  him  radiant  with  delight. 

He  already  knew  Witte  was  going  to  work  for 
Alden.  He  shook  his  hand  warmly. 

"  Great  luck!  "  cried  Graves.  "  It  makes  a  national 
figure  of  you.  Mr.  Alden  thinks  he  has  made  a  great 
find  in  you.  You  have  arrived !  " 

"Who  told  you?"  Witte  wondered. 

"  Miss  Gardiner,  one  of  the  readers  for  Seymour's, 
telephoned  my  sister.  She  and  Barbara  are  chums. 
It  was  to  Miss  Gardiner,  you  know,  that  she  took  your 
book  in  the  first  place,  and  it  was  on  her  recommenda 
tion  that  Alden  read  it." 


THE  BOOK  OF  LIFE  291 

"  I  see,"  said  Witte. 

An  office  boy  came  running  after  Graves.  He  was 
wanted  in  the  managing  editor's  office.  The  executive 
heads  were  going  into  council  to  decide  on  the  next 
day's  paper.  He  left  Witte  hurriedly. 

At  midnight  Witte  sat  down  to  write  his  resignation. 
But  Van  Bever,  the  managing  editor,  himself  walked 
up  to  the  desk.  He  had  already  heard  from  Graves 
about  Witte's  leaving.  He  came  up  to  congratulate 
him. 

When  Witte,  after  a  brisk  walk  in  the  night  air, 
reached  his  room,  his  exultation  left  him.  In  its  place 
came  a  sadness  and  a  vacant  feeling.  To  whom  should 
he  tell  the  story  of  his  success?  His  mother,  whose 
support  in  old  age  he  had  hoped  to  be,  was  dead.  She 
had  passed  away  without  seeing  him  safely  anchored. 
And  Helen  —  He  felt  as  if  his  heart  was  bathing  in 
its  own  blood  at  the  thought  of  his  dead  wife.  .  .  . 

The  lines  from  Goethe's  Dedication  in  "Faust" 
came  to  him : 

"  Mein  Leid  ertont  der  unbekannten  Menge, 
Ihr  Beifall  selbst  macht  meinem  Herzen  bang.  .  .  ." 

Those  who  could  recall  his  struggle  and  understand 
his  triumphs  were  no  longer  among  the  living.  Those 
who  would  applaud  him  were  not  those  whose  applause 
he  craved.  What  was  achievement,  what  was  fame, 
when  those  you  have  worked  for,  striven  for,  are  no 
longer  with  you  to  share  your  fame,  when  the  days  of 


292  WITTE  ARRIVES 

youth  and  happiness  are  but  a  memory  and  linger  like  a 
faintly  quivering  dream?  What  is  success  or  fame  to 
a  heart  that  harbors  the  graves  of  love  and  happiness? 
He  raised  the  window  to  let  the  cool  night  air  rest 
his  overwrought  nerves.  But  the  air  chilled  without 
resting  him.  He  pulled  down  the  shade  and  turned  on 
the  light.  On  the  table  lay  a  worn-out  copy  of 
"  Faust,"  the  copy  he  had  used  as  a  student.  He 
opened  it  and  began  to  read.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

OLD   SORROWS   AND   A   NEW   LIFE 

THREE  years  had  passed.  Except  for  an  added 
sharpness  about  his  temples  and  the  intensified 
pallor  of  his  features,  Emil  Witte  had  changed  little 
outwardly.  Within  him,  however,  the  change  which 
had  been  ushered  in  twenty-five  years  back  on  that  first 
morning  of  his  in  the  new  world,  when  his  father 
dressed  him  in  American  clothes  from  head  to  foot  — 
that  change  was  now  reaching  the  highest  consumma 
tion.  .  .  . 

Witte  had  become  peculiarly  American.  He  had 
drunk  deep  not  only  of  American  ideals,  but  of  Amer 
ican  culture  and  American  traditions.  His  articles  and 
editorials  in  the  Age  attracted  attention  particularly  by 
their  Emersonian  flavor.  The  cultural  background  of 
Witte's  writing  was  that  of  New  England.  Not  one 
in  a  thousand  readers  of  these  unsigned  editorials  on 
American  life  and  problems  and  ideals  would  have  sus 
pected  that  they  were  written  by  any  one  not  of  Amer 
ican  birth.  Many,  indeed,  would  have  placed  the 
writer  of  such  articles  as  none  other  than  a  scion  of  one 
of  the  oldest  American  families. 

293 


294  WITTE  ARRIVES 

Still  in  the  privacy  of  his  home  —  he  now  occupied 
a  modest  apartment  in  Greenwich  Village  —  Emil 
would  take  his  pen  once  a  week  or  ten  days  and  would 
write  a  letter  in  Yiddish  to  his  father.  To  write  to 
his  father  was  one  of  his  great  pleasures.  The  true 
reporter's  instinct  for  seeing  life  at  first  hand  had  not 
left  him :  he  still  would  make  his  pilgrimages  to  the 
people  in  search  of  ideas  as  well  as  "  color."  In  these 
ramblings  through  the  city  he  would  come  upon  a 
synagogue  or  into  "  Jewish  streets  "  on  the  East  Side 
occasionally,  and  then  memories  of  his  past  would 
be  revived.  And,  as  is  characteristic  of  such  mem 
ories,  he  would  dwell  fondly  upon  them.  .  .  . 

Witte's  place  among  the  younger  writers  and  editors 
was  definitely  established  by  his  second  book  "  The 
Fate  of  Democracies,"  which  had  been  put  on  the  mar 
ket  a  few  months  before,  and  reviews  of  which  were 
beginning  to  appear  in  the  papers  and  magazines. 

It  was  a  cool  August  morning,  and  Witte,  who  had 
been  unable  to  fasten  himself  dowrn  to  his  desk  in  ear 
nest  for  some  weeks,  determined  to  make  the  most  of 
it.  There  were  several  articles  in  his  mind  waiting  to 
be  transferred  to  paper.  He  decided  to  put  that 
"  problem  "  out  of  his  head  for  the  day,  at  least,  and 
get  down  to  business.  He  walked  into  his  office  de 
terminedly.  .  .  . 

The  first  thing  that  greeted  his  eyes  in  the  mail  be 
fore  him  was  an  envelope  of  clippings  —  reviews  of 


OLD  SORROWS  AND  A  NEW  LIFE     295 

his  book.  He  began  looking  them  over.  Some  of  the 
reviewers  thought  that  the  author  of  the  "  The  Fate  of 
Democracies  "  was  taking  the  difficulties  that  beset 
the  American  republic  in  altogether  too  sinister  a  light. 
Others,  on  the  contrary,  praised  the  book  as  a  timely 
warning,  and  as  performing  a  great  service  to  the  coun 
try. 

One  of  the  critics  struck  a  personal  note.  He  made 
mention  of  the  fact  that  this  "  fundamentally  American 
volume  "  was  written  by  a  man  who  had  come  to  the 
United  States  as  an  immigrant.  .  .  .  The  question  of 
restricting  immigration  was  then  being  agitated  in  cer 
tain  quarters.  "  It  would  be  folly,"  the  writer  had 
digressed  from  book  reviewing  to  editorializing  for  a 
moment,  "  to  close  our  doors  on  immigrants  when  they 
bring  to  our  shores  such  splendid  material  for  Ameri 
canism,  such  forceful  and  uncompromising  champions 
of  democratic  institutions  and  republican  ideals.  .  .  ." 

The  reference  to  his  foreign  birth  stirred  memories, 
which  in  spite  of  his  determination  not  to  digress  from 
work  that  morning  could  not  be  put  out  of  his  mind  at 
will.  There  was  a  fleeting  memory  of  his  father  whom 
he  had  not  seen  in  two  years.  .  .  .  He  had  not  heard 
from  Clara  in  months.  He  wondered  how  Alex  Stein 
was  getting  on  with  his  department  store.  His  brother 
Harry,  Emil  mused  with  much  satisfaction,  was  at  last 
getting  on  his  feet.  Partly  with  the  aid  of  their 
brother-in-law  and  partly  through  an  unlocked  for 


296  WITTE  ARRIVES 

business  boom,  Harry  had  come  into  possession  of  a 
big  clothing  establishment  in  Spring  Water  and  was 
doing  exceedingly  well. 

An  office  boy  brought  in  a  bundle  of  magazines. 
Witte  shook  off  his  memories  and  began  to  look 
through  the  mail  quickly.  Toward  the  end  of  the 
batch  he  came  upon  a  letter  which  brought  him  face  to 
face  with  the  "  problem  "  he  was  vainly  trying  to  put 
out  of  his  mind,  for  that  day  at  least.  It  was  a  note 
from  Miss  Graves. 

She  invited  him  to  come  out  to  dinner  Sunday. 
There  would  be  a  number  of  friends  there  whom  he 
would  no  doubt  be  glad  to  see.  .  .  .  There  was  a  refer 
ence  also  to  the  fact  that  he  had  not  called  at  their 
home  for  three  weeks.  Was  he  busy,  or  was  it  worry  ? 
Anyway  he  would  be  there  Sunday,  she  hoped.  ... 
Oh,  yes,  his  editorial  on  women's  rights  was  fine.  She 
was  very  happy  he  had  written  it  in  that  vein  —  just 
the  way  he  had  outlined  it  to  her.  It  was  bold  — 
splendid.  ...  A  discreet  tenderness  ran  through  the 
note.  Miss  Graves  was  worried  over  his  staying  away 
so  long.  He  saw  that  clearly.  .  .  . 

He  tossed  all  thought  of  working  that  morning 
definitely  to  the  winds.  There  was  no  use.  The 
"  problem "  took  its  place  once  more,  like  the  tra 
ditional  sword,  over  his  head.  Witte  loved  Barbara 
Graves.  He  was  certain,  too,  that  his  love  would  be 
returned.  He  and  Barbara  had  been  approaching  each 


OLD  SORROWS  AND  A  NEW  LIFE     297 

other  nearer  and  nearer  for  more  than  a  year.  He  had 
been  a  fequent  visitor  at  the  Graves'  home  during  that 
time.  Much  of  his  writing,  as  in  the  case  of  the  edi 
torial  on  women's  rights,  had  been  done  after  he  had 
talked  things  over  with  her,  or  with  her  brother,  or 
both.  He  began  to  feel  that  he  could  no  longer  satisfy 
the  desire  for  her  company,  for  her  presence,  with  an 
occasional  visit.  He  wanted  her  to  himself,  constantly, 
all  the  time. 

It  was  not  easy  to  begin  with  for  Witte  to  admit  to 
himself  that  the  feeling  he  cherished  for  Barbara  was 
love.  .  .  .  Helen  had  not  entirely  ceased  to  be  a  part 
of  himself.  ...  At  night  he  would  lie  awake  for 
hours  and  watch  Helen  and  a  little  boy  —  their  little 
boy,  the  one  that  should  not. have  died  at  birth  —  romp 
about  on  a  green  lawn.  ...  He  would  romp  with 
them  —  and  pet  his  child  and  talk  to  Helen  in  warm, 
endearing  terms.  ...  He  had  seen  a  picture  of  such 
a  happy  family  somewhere,  and  the  picture  had 
fastened  itself  in  his  brain  with  Helen,  their  child  — 
their  dead  son  —  and  himself  as  the  subjects.  .  .  . 
In  his  dreams  he  was  leading  a  delightful  family  life 
with  Helen  and  was  spending  many  ecstatic  moments 
with  his  golden-haired  youngster.  .  .  . 

One  night  the  picture  of  Helen,  which  his  imagina 
tion  had  conjured  up,  had  imperceptibly  passed  over 
into  a  picture  of  Barbara.  .  .  .  Only  Barbara  was 
not  playing  with  a  child  on  the  lawn.  Instead  she 


298  WITTE  ARRIVES 

was  sitting  in  a  reclining  chair,  book  in  hand.  .  .  . 

Gradually  the  picture  of  Barbara  crowded  out  the 
picture  of  Helen  and  their  baby.  There  was  some 
thing  every  day,  a  letter,  a  telephone  call,  a  visit  to 
remind  him  of  Barbara,  to  draw  him  nearer  to  her. 
He  realized  that  he  loved  her  deeply,  tenderly  — 
and  drew  back  writhing  in  pain  —  stung  by  the 
"  problem  "— 

What  stood  between  Witte  and  Barbara  was  race. 
He  did  not  mince  words  about  it.  He  did  not  try  to 
deceive  himself.  When  a  little  child  in  Russia,  he  had 
learned  to  fear  certain  Christian  holidays  because  they 
meant  drunkenness,  and  that  meant  breaking  into 
Jewish  homes,  fighting,  brawling  —  "a  calamity  upon 
Jews."  In  America  the  prejudice  against  his  race  did 
not  manifest  itself  in  physical  violence.  But  there 
were  fine  pin-pricks,  subtle  discriminations,  which  did 
not  escape  his  eye,  which  did  not  escape  his  own  person 
at  times.  His  love  for  the  Gentile  girl  had  the  effect 
of  awakening  and  intensifying  his  racial  sympathies. 

Of  course,  Miss  Graves  had  nothing  to  do  with  all 
this.  There  were  no  personal  religious  differences  be 
tween  him  and  her.  He  was  no  disciple  of  the  syna 
gogue.  Miss  Graves  nominally  was  a  Unitarian. 
Her  deism  and  his  antagonism  had  nothing  hostile, 
nothing  conflicting  about  them.  That  was  what  his 
reason  told  him.  But  that  did  not  smooth  over  the 
indignities  which,  though  he  was  not  himself  suffering 


OLD  SORROWS  AND  A  NEW  LIFE     299 

from  them  at  the  moment,  the  Jews  were  suffering  at 
the  time  in  various  parts  of  the  world,  at  the 
hands  of  Christians.  And  these  indignities  rankled, 

burned.  .  .  . 

For  three  months  this  awakened  race  feeling  had 
been  strewing  thorns  in  the  path  of  his  love.  He  had 
sought  all  the  literature  on  the  subject  from  Lessings 
"  Nathan  the  Wise  "  to  Zangwill's  "  The  Melting  Pot." 
He  read  the  latest  discussions  of  the  "  Jewish  ques 
tion  "  in  the  Yiddish  press  of  America.  He  was  much 
impressed  with  Nathan's  speech  to  the  Templar : 

"Are  we  our  nation?    What  does  it  signify  —  nation ? 
Are  Christian  and  Jew  rather  Christian  and  Jew 
Than  Man?     Oh,  if  only  I  had  found  in  you 
One  more  whom  it  suffices  to  be  called  Man." 

But  the  broad  tolerance  of  the  wise  Nathan  was  not 
guiding  the  relations  between  Jew  and  Christian  in 
their  daily  contact,  Witte  felt.  In  spite  of  Lessing 
and  Zangwill  the  palm  had  not  been  extended  by  the 
one  or  accepted  by  the  other.  .  .  .  Jew  and  Christian 
alike  still  cherished  age-long  prejudices  against  each 
other.  .  .  .  Not  Lessing,  not  Zangwill,  but  an  obscure 
writer  in  a  small  Yiddish  weekly,  it  seemed  to  Witte, 
was  getting  nearer  to  the  crux  of  the  difference  between 
Jew  and  Christian. 

"  Christianity  is  not  content  with  having  the  Jew 
merely  throw  off  his  creed,"  this  writer  wound  up  an 
impassioned  article.  "The  last  thing  Christianity 


300  WITTE  ARRIVES 

wants  is  for  the  Jew  to  cease  to  be  a  Jew  and  to  become 
a  man.  It  wants  him  to  become  a  Christian.  Do  away 
with  the  Ram's  Horn,  with  the  Shopar,  but  only  to 
listen  to  the  ringing  of  church  bells.  Christianity 
wants  a  world  of  Christians.  .  .  . 

"  But,"  the  writer  concluded,  "  as  long  as  there  are 
churches  there  will  be  synagogues.  As  long  as  church 
bells  will  symbolize  the  Trinity  to  Christians,  the 
Shopar  will  speak  of  the  One  God  to  Jews.  .  .  ." 

Witte  read  this  article  by  the  obscure  Yiddish  writer 
to  Miss  Graves.  They  often  talked  together  about 
creeds  and  smiled  and  wondered  at  the  folly  of  it 
all  ...  man  pitted  .against  man,  nation  against 
nation.  ...  As  lief  might  the  trees  in  the  forest  en 
gage  in  deadly  combat  because  of  the  differences  in 
bark.  .  .  . 

Miss  Graves  accompanied  him  one  Sunday  morning 
on  a  stroll  through  the  East  Side.  Within  the  space 
of  one  block  they  came  upon  a  church  and  a  synagogue. 
It  was  a  Jewish  holiday,  and  precisely  at  the  hour  when 
men  and  women  were  pouring  out  of  the  church  at  one 
end  of  the  block,  men  and  women  were  pouring  out  of 
the  synagogue  at  the  other.  The  worshipers  in  each 
case  carried  a  copy  of  the  Book  which  first  promulgated 
the  injunction,  "  Love  thy  neighbor  as  thyself."  They 
passed  each  other  in  grim  silence.  Yes,  here  and  there 
even  with  a  look  of  anger,  hatred.  .  .  .  Several 
children  snickered  "  Sheeny  "  and  mimicked  a  bearded 


OLD  SORROWS  AND  A  NEW  LIFE     301 

Jew  whose  features  were  not  unlike  those  that  artists 
attribute  to  the  Christ. 

Miss  Graves  noticed  this  and  bit  her  lips.  When  she 
regained  control  over  herself  she  said: 

"  Some  day  humanity  will  outgrow  bigotry  and 
superstition.  It  is  inconceivable  that  these  artificial 
barriers  between  races  should  last  for  all  time." 

At  which  Emil  laughed  softly,  sadly.  On  his  desk 
lay  the  unfinished  manuscript  of  an  article  on  the  "  Ris 
ing  Tide  of  Nationalism,"  which  he  was  writing. 
Even  then  all  through  Europe  the  smaller  nations  were 
in  ferment,  demanding  the  right  to  exist  as  independent 
national  bodies.  As  was  the  case  with  the  Jews  in  the 
days  of  the  prophets,  each  of  these  nationalities  was 
now  clamoring  for  a  king.  They  welcomed  tyranny 
so  long  as  the  tyrants  were  of  their  own  blood. 

He  communicated  his  thoughts  to  her  and  his  doubts 
about  the  quick  disappearance  of  race  distinctions  and 
national  hatreds. 

"  Is  there  to  be  no  end  of  it?  "  Miss  Graves  asked 
with  infinite  sadness.  "  Is  this  senseless  feud  between 
followers  of  various  creeds  to  rage  on  for  ever?  Will 
the  cross,  which  was  intended  as  a  symbol  of  passion, 
continue  to  be  identified  with  persecution?  Will  the 
ringing  of  church  bells,  intended  to  signify  the  ushering 
in  of  peace  and  good  will,  continue  to  spell  massacres, 
pogroms  upon  millions  of  people?  Is  there  no  way 
out?" 


302  WITTE  ARRIVES 

Several  days  later  they  were  discussing  the  same 
problem  as  they  sat  on  a  bench  in  Prospect  Park  in  the 
evening. 

Witte  was  more  than  usually  subdued.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  way  out  of  this  muddle  of  religious 
bigotry  and  persecution.  There  seemed  to  be  no 
remedy  for  this  blind,  unreasoned  race  hatred.  He 
feared  there  was  no  way  out.  His  love,  his  happiness 
were  crumbling. 

Miss  Graves  looked  helpless,  distressed.  She  caught 
a  glimpse  of  Witte's  face.  It  was  graven  with  pain. 
They  sat  silent  for  a  long  time.  .  .  . 

She  finally  broke  the  silence.  Her  voice  vibrated 
with  feeling.  It  sounded  strange  and  dreamlike,  as  if 
it  came  from  far  off.  .  .  . 

"  Yes,"  she  was  saying,  "  there  is  a  way  out.  .  .  . 
If  men  would  only  see  it  ...  Love  —  that  is  the  way 
out.  .  .  .  We  must  all  follow  the  voice  of  love.  .  .  ." 

Witte  turned  his  face  from  her.  He  felt  that  if  he 
looked  into  her  eyes  he  would  say  that  which  his  heart 
cried  out,  but  which  his  tongue  feared  to  utter. 

It  was  shortly  after  that  evening  that  he  had  ceased 
going  to  the  Graves'  home.  He  stayed  away  and 
grappled  with  his  problem  and  brooded  over  it  for 
weeks.  It  was  for  this  absence  that  her  note  was  now 
mildly  reproaching  him.  .  .  . 

He  picked  up  the  letter  and  read  it  once  more.  A 
tenderness  ran  through  him.  ...  He  was  nigh  unto 


OLD  SORROWS  AND  A  NEW  LIFE     303 

tears.  .  .  .  What  had  she  to  do  with  a  senseless  feud 
of  two  thousand  years?  Why  hold  her  to  account  for 
the  malice  of  Christendom?  The  hatred  between 
Christian  and  Jew  was  not  of  her  making  —  not  of 
their  making.  Why  should  it  mar  their  lives?  Why 
should  it  be  in  the  way  of  their  love  ? 

He  sat  in  his  chair  for  some  time.  ...  A  weakness 
overcame  him,  a  dizziness.  .  .  .  Voices  seemed  to  fill 
the  room.  .  .  .  His  father's  voice.  .  .  .  And  his 
mother's.  .  .  .  There  was  regret  in  their  voices  .  .  . 
tears  were  in  their  eyes.  .  .  . 

He  woke  from  his  revery.  His  mind  was  cleared. 
He  had  decided. 

His  father  would  understand  him.  .  .  .  He  always 
understood  him.  .  .  .  And  his  mother,  were  she  alive, 
she,  too,  would  have  stood  by  him.  ...  He  could  ex 
plain  it  to  them.  .  .  .  And  they  would  see  it.  ...  He 
was  not  surrendering.  ...  He  was  not  deserting.  .  .  . 
He  was  merely  trying  to  wrest  from  life  the  happiness 
which  was  his  due  ...  the  happiness  which  was  hu 
man  and  knew  no  race  or  creed.  .  .  . 

He  rose  and  lifted  the  telephone  receiver.  He  called 
a  number.  His  voice  was  clear  and  strangely  calm. 
Suddenly  a  deep  flush  came  into  his  face.  She  was 
speaking.  ...  He  lost  all  control  over  himself. 

*  Yes,"  he  stammered,  "  I'm  coming  at  once  —  to  see 
you  —  Barbara  — " 

He  walked  out  of  the  office  noiselessly.     In  the  street 


304  WITTE  ARRIVES 

he  walked  fast  for  several  blocks.  His  walking  inter 
fered  with  his  thoughts,  his  visionings.  He  motioned 
to  a  nearby  taxi.  He  gave  the  address  of  the  Graves' 
home,  leaned  back  in  his  seat  and  closed  his  eyes. 

Barbara  met  him  in  the  hallway.  The  astounded  yet 
happy  look  in  her  eyes  made  her  beautiful.  .  .  .  She 
extended  her  hand  to  him,  but  he  did  not  notice  it.  ... 
He  was  looking  straight  at  her  face.  .  .  .  She  had 
never  seen  him  look  in  that  way  at  her  before.  .  .  . 
Speech  died  on  her  lips.  .  .  .  She  found  it  again  —  in 
his  arms. 


THE   END 


YB  40010 


GENERAL  LIBRARY- U.C.  BERKELEY 


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343156 

3  crW. 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA'  LIBRARY 


